


Shadow Of Death

by ScholarForChrist



Series: Lark and Wolf Writings [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Saves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholarForChrist/pseuds/ScholarForChrist
Summary: "Unbridled curiosity can kill more than just a cat, Geralt." Borch rested a gloved hand on Geralt's shoulder. "Guard your mind and make haste, my friend, lest you force destiny to grant you your blessing." (Because we all know Jaskier wouldn't have made it down the mountain without running face-first into trouble.) Jaskier Whump and Friendship Fixit. Rated T for violence/mild gore
Series: Lark and Wolf Writings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852129
Comments: 45
Kudos: 338





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with my sister, the Lark to my Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with my sister, the Lark to my Wolf

Contrary to what had often been said behind his back and uncomfortably close to his face, Jaskier could, in fact, recognize when he wasn’t wanted. Whether he chose to do anything about it was another question entirely, of course… A little persistence often worked wonders to change a disinterested audience’s mind, and if Jaskier had absented himself every time someone booed or gifted him with a high-velocity sample of their meal, he’d have no right to call himself a bard. 

However, the sheer amount of loathing just now in the witcher’s voice, face, the whole gamut of body language, really - that had knocked him back a step or two. He’d seen Geralt dispatch both men and monsters with less fury than he’d just aimed at Jaskier, and for a chilling moment back there, he’d wondered what he’d actually do if Geralt took another step forward or reached for the sword over his shoulder. Because what could you do if a witcher decided he didn’t want you around anymore?

Get a healthy distance away and wait for the oaf to come to his senses, was what instinct and experience directed. But now, trudging down the narrow mountain path alone, Geralt’s parting words kept playing over in Jaskier’s head like a set of badly-written lyrics, rattling around painfully and deepening the hurt with each encore. _If life could give me one blessing..._

“Well, allow me to grant you this boon, O mighty witcher,” he said aloud, walking backwards so his voice would carry that much further up the path, up to the cliffside, where Geralt was no doubt still sulking. “Consider me _off your hands!_ ” His heel hit a rock, and it took a moment of hasty windmilling to keep him on his feet, and also to provide him with a heady look down the rocky slope to his left. Some sort of bird flew tree to tree at least a mile _below_ where he stood, and the bard let out a wary breath. “Right. Eyes on the road.” 

Although chastened by Mother Nature, Jaskier did not let the momentary distraction interrupt his flow of ire, now directed at the slope ahead of him, and occasionally over his shoulder. 

“You know, I put up with a lot from you. I’ve patiently and- and pliantly submitted to the ill tempers, the forced marches, and dubious culinary experiences. You’ve insulted my profession, my personality, and my gods-given _voice_ with nary an apology. Well, good luck charming those grimy farmers yourself, my friend! We’ll see whose pie hasn’t got any filling _then_ , won’t we?”

The mental image of Geralt hamfisting a lute and growling through a chorus of “Toss A Coin” kept Jaskier snickering to himself for another mile or two, but his attention was forced back to his surroundings as the way grew rockier, the drop-off more sheer. He stopped in his tracks at the unwelcome sight of the cliff face ahead, belted by the gossamer thread of the dwarves’ death-bridge. 

Nobody had explained to him just how Borch had survived that fall. Nobody had taken the time to explain anything to him, actually, after abandoning him at camp and leaving him to catch up long after all the excitement was over. But the idea of shuffling across that rickety death-trap struck him as nothing short of suicide. Clearly, the foul-mouthed little fellows had somehow made it back across the broken section, as they were nowhere to be seen. His legs were twice as long as theirs, so surely he could manage… _Or they all fell screaming to their deaths_ , murmured a voice in the back of his mind, and he gripped the strap of his lute a little tighter.

“Yeah…. nope.” 

There was a deer path he’d seen a few minutes back. If deer could find their way down the mountain using only simple animal instinct, surely Jaskier, with his years of experience wandering the wilds alongside a witcher, could accomplish the same feat. Caingorn had seemed a friendly enough place, with a large tavern and a conspicuous lack of musical entertainment. He cinched his satchel more securely across his chest, gratifyingly heavy with dried meat and other provisions liberated from the base camp he’d passed on his way down. It would be more than enough to last him down the mountain. The Reavers wouldn’t need it, Yennifer didn’t deserve it, and Geralt could just go slaughter a boar or something. 

The little trail was right where he remembered it, and he started into the thinly-wooded slope with confidence. For a brief instant, he wondered whether Geralt would be able to find him off the main path like this, but then he reminded himself he didn’t care. If Geralt ever took a breather from being his eternally pig-headed self and decided he missed Jaskier, maybe wanted a little positive publicity or even just some pleasant conversation, he deserved to put in a little work for the privilege of asking Jaskier’s forgiveness. 

Besides, there was something quite starkly romantic in the act of striking out into the wilderness on one’s own, embracing the solitude of the sunset. There was a song in all this, perhaps something steady and bold, a song of courage and self-sufficiency….

However, two hours later found him kneeling somewhere in the later stages of grief as he added a pinch of dry grass to the meager little fire he’d managed to sustain, tucked into the shelter of a few pines. 

“Right, look here - I’ve kindled you, I’ve coaxed you, I’ve hand-fed you for the past hour. What more do you bloody want from me?” Geralt made it look so absurdly easy. But then, the man made taking down a kikimora look like idle amusement, too, so perhaps that wasn’t a fair comparison. 

And just like that, there was that same vicious song looping through his head again. _The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!_ He’d put aside all thought of his erstwhile companion for a time with the welcome distraction of steel-grey pines jutting like daggers against the golden sunset, the crisp air winding deep in his lungs like the call of adventure….. But now, sitting in the dark as his fire guttered in the wind - no, scratch that, died outright, with only a gasp of smoke for farewell - he thought he could be excused for venting a little of the righteous anger boiling up inside him. 

Because the whole “Child Surprise” thing? Not Jaskier’s fault, actually. He’d done the decent thing and invited the old grouch to a party in hopes he’d actually let a little joy into the dried-up husk he called a heart. But no - Geralt had to go and blow his cover, pick a fight, and then thumb his nose at destiny by volunteering for his own precious surprise. Everybody knew Destiny was Lady Luck’s twin sister: just as fickle, and more than willing to use the dagger up her sleeve if you taunted her, so Geralt had shoveled _that_ particular heap squarely onto his own head.

And while Jaskier had debatably had a more direct hand in the little incident with the djinn, it’s not as if Geralt came out too shabbily on his end of things, was it? A day and a half of puking blood and nearly dying versus ending up in bed with the gorgeous (albeit evil and terrifying) witch? Not that Jaskier envied Geralt that prize in the slightest. Clearly life as Yennifer’s intermittent fling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, if the very obvious and nasty break-up on the cliff back there was anything to go by. 

And upon witnessing said break-up, what’s a good friend to do but go down there and offer a little solidarity? Not a breath of “I told you she was bad news, repeatedly”, just commiseration and companionship? 

The breeze stiffened briefly, pushing past Jaskier in the dark like a stranger’s shoulder, and he suddenly felt immensely empty. Perhaps all that golden-eyed loathing was actually a big steaming mound of self-hatred, but who knew? Maybe ten years of bottled up annoyance and resentment looked the same when it spilled out all at once. Even so, that didn’t stop his own heart from throbbing like a bruise, hearing the man he considered his closest friend reduce their experiences together to three ugly sentences spat on the ground between them. 

He kicked half-heartedly at the grey remains of his fire, barely visible in the moon’s scant light. If he was honest with himself - and how could he be anything else, sitting alone in the dark with no destination and nobody waiting for him? - Jaskier knew there was no real chance of Geralt coming to find him, especially not to apologize. In all the years he’d known the witcher, it had always been Jaskier who’d heard rumors of the White Wolf’s reappearance a town over and hastened to catch up, always Jaskier who’d fallen in step behind Roach and more-or-less complied with the witcher’s rules of the road for the sake of bearing witness to Geralt’s awe-inspiring achievements.

Well, no more. He didn’t need Geralt stalking and growling ahead of him to find adventure worth putting into song. And in fact, considering that his fire was out and the trees did nothing to block the wind, Jaskier decided he might as well spend the quiet hours of night in pursuing said adventure, instead of chasing sleep he knew wouldn’t come. 

Once he was on his feet, picking his way down the slope, the wind actually didn’t seem so chilled. A strange warmth began to grow inside his chest as he went, like a living creature curled around his heart. He wasn’t just some… musically-inclined _appendage_ of the witcher, after all. He’d become something of a legend in these parts himself, for his talent and wordsmithing, for things that had nothing whatsoever to do with Geralt of bloody Rivia and his monster-slaying. 

The further he went, the more the wind felt like a friendly hand at his back, pressing him onward to whatever new sights and songs awaited him. He wasn’t normally a man to revel in resentment, was a little shocked at himself at how much of this bitter draught he could apparently hold, but this felt harsh and cleansing, something in the darkness beckoning him onward to a promise yet unspoken. 

“Lead on, then,” he replied to the wind, smiling grimly as he followed this new muse’s call. 

  


\------------------

  


The journey back down the mountainside was quicker on his own, and it was easy for Geralt to fall back into that steady rhythm of travel that was so familiar to him, but something gnawed at his mind, a restlessness that was too similar to that which had led him to seek out the djinn all those years ago.

He wasn’t accustomed to giving in to feelings. It was true to some extent that Witchers were trained to ignore human emotion, but that didn’t stop the body from feeling. Feeling pain, rage, even fear was simply a part of being alive. Every living thing felt the same. It was the other side of feeling that came less naturally to him. The side that gave in, gave up, gave itself away. It was too open, too vulnerable a feeling to share with anything more than an animal, a creature incapable of going out of its way to break a heart. After the djinn, he’d thought maybe he was wrong, the connection he’d felt with Yennefer had been intoxicating. But she could be right; maybe it had just been magic. He’d been able to go years without even hearing her name, and while his thoughts had wandered to her, and to their time together, something had seemed off about their interactions. Intensely passionate, but fleeting, only ever present when the scent of her was near. 

What he’d felt for her hadn’t changed him, not really. But the fear and guilt that had churned in his gut, from the first few drops of blood that had stained Jaskier’s lips to when he’d finally seen the bard alive and jabbering on about witches and dreams, had been different. It had lingered, rankled in him, and while he’d been loath to admit it at the time, the relief he’d felt upon seeing the bard up and moving, alive and well, had changed something between them. Jaskier had gone from occasional nuisance to friend. But every time he dared allow himself a connection to someone, that someone either died or betrayed him. Clearly a Witcher’s destiny did not mingle well with love affairs or friendships.

And now? Geralt had avoided all thought of the bard until he’d passed traces of his haphazard trail, watched it wind away from the main path. If Jaskier wanted to run off and mope he was free to do so. Guilt stung at Geralt’s heart, but he brushed it away and set his jaw more firmly. It was true that Jaskier brought nothing but trouble every time he came into Geralt’s life. Whether he regretted his words or not, they’d been said, and the bard was gone, probably for good. It was better than being torn apart or eaten by some monster, and it was a good sight better than being killed by Geralt himself, which Jaskier had come perilously close to on more than one occasion. Jaskier would be better off traipsing around nobles and inns, plying them for coin with his ridiculous songs. It was better this way, Geralt told himself, and he remained on the well-worn route, passing the dwarves in the night without a word.

Roach was waiting patiently where he’d left her, the soft snuffling of her breaths and the way she scented his clothing even more familiar than the trek down the mountain had been. Roach nudged him and he stroked her mane, settling the saddlebags across her back.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbled as she turned a wide brown eye on him. “He’s fine.” Roach nickered and he frowned at her. “He knows the way back. He’ll be singing bawdy songs for the drunkards in town by nightfall. He doesn’t need us.”

“You should be more careful with your words, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt felt his shoulders slump in annoyance, and he turned to find Borch leaning against a tree, watching him with an unreadable expression on his weathered face.

“I thought you had a child to care for,” Geralt said as he continued saddling up Roach.

“Indeed. But not so urgently that I cannot advise another.” That stopped him, a flare of anger sparking in his eyes as he turned to the dragon-man.

“What do you want, Borch?”

“I thought when I left you on that mountain, your anger had cooled. I see now you are far more pig-headed a fellow than I’d first thought.” 

Geralt clenched his jaw against any further outbursts, cinching the saddle straps tight as Borch meandered closer.

“You shouldn’t leave him alone, Geralt. There are more things that roam these mountains than a few dragons.”

“He’ll live. He has an annoying proclivity for doing so.” Geralt rested one hand on the saddle, turning a frown on the man. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you go after him?” Borch watched him idly before spouting more vague nonsense.

“I have my own destiny to fulfill. You, however...” The older man paused to stroke Roach’s nose. “...seem rather determined to remain blind to your own.” The frown on Geralt’s face dug deeper, but Borch continued before he could speak and something in the man’s tone made him hesitate. “Why was the hirikka starving?”

Geralt watched him for a moment, noting the alertness of his eyes, the tense posture, the lack of his usual calm. Something had changed since he’d last seen the man.

“The dragon drove off all the prey,” Geralt posited slowly, knowing the answer before Borch spoke it.

“Dragons don’t eat rabbits and birds. Not even a doe would be a sufficient meal. They prefer the fattened calves of wealthy lords, and the woodland creatures know this, just as a lark knows a good safe home in the trees is worth the threat of a human hunting for deer in its wood. If your friend is not careful-”

“He’s not my friend.”

Borch broke off with a long-suffering sigh and Geralt took the opportunity to push past him, leading Roach by the reins.

“You know… I had expected that with the advantage of an extended life, a witcher would be a wiser man.”

Geralt stopped, growling over his shoulder, “And I would have thought a dragon would give little thought to the hurt feelings of an oversensitive bard.” 

“You are young yet, Geralt.” The old man’s voice had become firm, something commanding in his tone that was not unlike a scolding parent. “Be still and listen to an older man before you find yourself so advanced in years that such a concept does not exist.”

The witcher heaved a sigh, ignoring Roach’s shuffling hooves and turning to face the old man with seething reluctance. Borch took a seat on a log nearby, seemingly unaware of the itch in the witcher’s legs to get moving, to get on the road again and walk off all this tension.

“Do you remember what we spoke of on our way up this mountain? You, the bard, and I?” When Geralt only glared at him, Borch pressed on, unimpressed, “We spoke of dragons, Geralt. Of the common, and the not so common. That young man,” Borch pointed back up the mountain with one gloved hand, “is of the latter sort.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“If you’re seriously suggesting…”

“That your bard is secretly a dragon as well?” He gave an amused chuckle. “No, despite his apt choice in attire. But a man with such tenacity, to follow a witcher into certain peril, even death… I dare say such a man bears the heart of a dragon.”

Geralt looked away, grumbling, “He follows the stories.”

“He follows you,” came the immediate rebuttal and Geralt fixed sharp golden eyes on the dragon’s human face. “Friendship is a powerful thing, witcher. I thought perhaps you would recognize the feeling.”

Geralt scoffed, offering a wry smile that did little to lighten his features.

“Yes, well… Witchers don’t feel.”

“And golden dragons are a myth.” Borch held his arms out. “… yet here we are.”

The same words came unbidden to Geralt’s mind, spoken by an insufferable bard over a tub of dirtied water. Something in his heart felt heavy as a stone, dragging at him like chains as Borch pressed on, “A good friend can be as rare as a dragon, a loyal friend rarer still. One willing to put up with you…” Geralt met the man’s small smile with a sigh riddled with irritation. 

“He is in danger, Geralt.”

  


\------------------

  


By the time the first fingers of sunrise had reached down through the thick cover of the pines, Jaskier’s red coat was soaked with dew, his shirt clammy against his skin where his satchel hadn’t rubbed his shoulder raw. But he hadn’t stopped walking for a moment, had barely felt tired all night, and the satisfaction of watching the dawn rise over the hills around him as he continued on was well worth the sore feet he guessed would come later. For now, he meant to ride this upwelling of righteous anger as far as he could, grinding pine needles underfoot with a delightfully crisp sound. 

Drawing a long breath fragrant with satisfaction and potential, he crested a hill and paused, looking ahead for the most efficient way down that wouldn’t also result in broken bones and/or musical instruments. And apparently that’s all it took for his body to realize what he’d put it through, because the hot burn fueling his energy vanished like a snuffed candle, and a thousand unwelcome aches blossomed in its place, nearly taking his legs from under him. 

“Hmm! Wow. Okay, yeah, sitting down now…” he said, blinking hard to clear his vision as he fumbled for the nearest boulder. Sweet Melitele, what had he been thinking? His calves were cramped, the ache reaching up his legs and right into his back, because he’d been an idiot and hadn’t bothered to trade his lute or satchel between shoulders the entire night’s journey. Not to mention he was abominably thirsty and hollow with hunger. Was this what it felt like to be Geralt? Endless stamina was simply not worth the price. 

Some dried meat and most of the contents of his waterskin helped reassure him that he wasn’t about to expire on the spot, but the thought of rising from his boulder and continuing the journey was enough to make him cast about for anyplace remotely sheltered. Just a nap, then he could press on like the mighty, adventure-seeking bard he was, but first, for pity’s sake, someplace to shut his eyes for a moment…. 

And the gods were good, because only a stone’s throw away was the inviting mouth of a small cleft in the rock, far too small for a dragon’s lair. Also too small for a bear or any other creature he could think of that might want to snack on a napping bard, which sounded like just the right size to Jaskier. With a groan, he staggered up, hissing against the multitude of protesting muscles, and heroically limped the short distance to the opening just as the sunrise began to stroke down the rock beside him. 

Inside, the shade was gentle against his face, the stone pleasantly rough under his palm. Something tingled on the edge of his perception, a faint whiff in the air that stayed his hand for a moment as he lifted his lute from his shoulders. The little cavern was only wide enough for maybe three men to walk side-by-side, but turned almost immediately to the right, hiding its secrets behind that coy little twist. When Jaskier stepped further, peering into the darker shadows, he was surprised to see the cave continuing still further back, and wished he had ready access to a torch, because there was something both tantalizing and terrifying in the question of just how deep this cleft went. 

Still, no sense wasting a perfect nook for a nap, not while his legs were nearly shaking with exhaustion. Just around the bend, out of sight of both man and beast, hopefully, he laid lute and satchel close at hand, patted his chest to be sure his little book was still there, and stretched out gratefully. 

And, of course, not more than five minutes into savoring the slow descent of sleep’s siren song, he was rudely shoved back into full awareness by the realization of what that scent in the air was.

The sea.

As nonsensical as the notion was, that was unmistakably what he was smelling: salt-soaked stone, the faintest odor of fish, a combination that was simply unmistakable. And with the coast a good fortnight’s travel away, that made no sense at all. Even now, though, all his senses tuned toward the ever-more-mysterious passageway, he could actually hear the in-out sigh of the waves, like an echo of his own amazed breaths. It was like sitting inside an enormous seashell.

Loathe though he was to sacrifice his nap, destiny clearly had other ideas for him. Curiosity buzzed inside his mind, filling him with new energy, and he got up to venture a little ways down the passage. He had his book and pencil, and the small knife at his waist - the satchel and lute would be there when he returned, ready to start composing his newest masterpiece. 

After a few steps, the light was almost gone, but he kept a hand to either side of the narrowed tunnel, following his nose and the unceasing sound of the waves. He shut his eyes, intuiting the gentle slope and turns with hands and feet, heart thrumming. At one place, the walls came together so closely that they nearly brushed his shoulders, and he opened his eyes, a prickle of claustrophobia at the back of his neck. 

Ahead, the tunnel widened again, blessedly, a fact he could be sure of thanks to the faint glow from ahead, like sunlight. There was something here, all right, something absolutely unique and wonderful, because the sound of the sea was omnipresent here, dancing from wall to wall, everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where the cave opened up once more, Jaskier stopped, fumbling for his notebook.

“.... a precipice… from which tumbled a waterfall - no, no, a treasure horde… created by the sea herself, her gifts to weary travelers who had followed her beckoning hand thus far…” Kneeling down, he reached out reverently to touch the top of the veritable mountain of shells, forming a steep descent down to the bottom of the cliff. The shell in his hand was a vibrant orange and white, spiraled like a horn or minaret. 

Sand trickled almost musically down the slope as he tentatively set foot on the shells. A few crunched loudly under the bard’s feet, a blunt, jarring sound, but he kept moving, eyes on the promising glow like a doorway down below. Despite his care, as he neared the halfway point, a large conch dislodged itself beneath his boot and sent Jaskier skidding down the rest of the way, with a cacophony like he was destroying an entire pottery shop. 

Unceremoniously, he found himself sprawled at the bottom of the heap, wincing as the pointiest shells in the entire collection made their presence known beneath him. 

“Not my best entrance,” he mused, getting to his feet with a grimace. “Maybe gloss over that bit in the song…” In his hand, his spiral shell was still intact, warm and bright as a sunset, and he slipped it into his coat along with his notebook.

The sunshiny glow was indeed coming from a doorway, but only in the most abstract sense. Tiny particles of sand and shards of shell lifted off the floor and joined the mesmerizing swirl of a portal, the magic so strong Jaskier could feel it in the air, like the breath before a lightning strike but drawn out, infinitely patient power circling, waiting for a traveler courageous enough to cross its threshold. 

A cool sea breeze blew through against him, and the bard licked salt from his lips in wonder. The scene on the other side of the door was blurred, but clear enough that Jaskier could make out a wall with a window pouring sunshine through, and a graceful figure that turned to look at him, gown trailing behind her. 

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier breathed, laughing softly to himself as he glanced to the heavens. “Now _this_ will be a ballad to remember.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair - enough to make him presentable, but without erasing the rugged impression it gave him - and squared his shoulders before stepping boldly through the doorway.

The first thing he noticed, as the tingle of magic faded, was the damp cold that sank deep into his body, nearly pressing the breath from him. His vision cleared enough to see bare stone walls on all sides, a room far too small for a noble lady’s bedchamber, and a window beside him gaping to show a steely sky weeping into the water far below. Unease snuck into the pit of his stomach, but he turned anyway, the memory of the lady still flickering hope in his mind.

When he turned, he saw darkness standing there. Looming over him were black hollows where eyes should be but weren’t. The waves swallowed his gasp, then the darkness swallowed him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Friday until complete! (7 chapters total)


	2. Chapter 2

“There is an evil in these mountains, long since departed from the thoughts and cares of men. But even a forgotten thing can kill.”

Borch’s words echoed in Geralt’s mind as he picked his way back up the mountainside, taking a route with flatter terrain so Roach could stay with him. The mare huffed in his ear and Geralt urged her on, leading her by the reins so she could focus on her footing without also balancing a rider on her back. He’d made good time, moving quickly through the lower hills until he rejoined the deer path Jaskier had favored. The faded path had wound its way through brambles and thickets effectively trampled by the bard’s inexperienced methods of travel, and it was at once a relief and an annoyance to be able to so clearly and easily track the man. As he travelled, he went over the few details Borch had given him.

“What exactly is this monster?” Geralt had asked, his tone sharp and temper short, but the dragon’s calm demeanor had remained unruffled by his brusque demand.

“A shadow. The Shadow, as there is but one. It feeds on fear, pain, misery, and grief. It is an intelligent thing, manipulative and cruel, but while it may possess a mind similar to your own, it has no heart.”

“Can it be killed?”

“That I do not know. It was imprisoned long ago, but it has since grown in strength…”

Geralt came across the pitiful remnants of Jaskier’s camp. The pile of sticks and brush with only a little ash at their center was a testament to how unprepared the bard was to be on his own in the wilderness. The witcher moved quickly, driven by the promise of a hunt. That’s what he told himself, at any rate. The tightness in his gut was nothing more than irritation that he was yet again walking into trouble stirred up by Jaskier’s careless actions. The twist of guilt, though, rebuffed that claim, just as Borch had when Geralt had demanded, his own accusing tone fresh in his heart, “Why is it that this creature has grown strong enough to become a problem only when there is a witcher nearby to handle it?” 

His ire had immediately been tempered by the dragon’s admonishment.

“I came on this hunt in the hopes of saving my family, Geralt. I searched for you in the event that I could not.”

Geralt’s lowered gaze had served as sufficient apology, and Borch’s tone softened.

“Because if I could not arrive in time to save her, my mate would die… and the anguish of a mother torn from her child is no small pain.” The old man’s eyes had squinted, shining with a similar suffering. “Such a thing would be a feast for the Shadow, and a rare burst of strength to reach beyond its prison, perhaps just enough to lure in more than a rabbit or bird.”

“Enough to lure in a man,” Geralt finished and the dragon’s next words had caused the tightness in Geralt’s chest to grow cold and hard, steeling with determination.

“Only one whose mind is open to suggestion. Unbridled curiosity can kill more than just a cat, Geralt.” Borch had rested one gloved hand on Geralt’s shoulder as the older man passed, moving to join his companions further down the path, where Téa and Véa stood with the egg held close. “Guard your mind and make haste, my friend, lest you force destiny to grant you your blessing.”

Geralt pressed on, cresting another hill and catching sight of the rocky cliffside immediately. It loomed over the valley like a vulture, and the minute his eyes landed on the shadowed nook, the cave entrance hidden to the untrained eye, he became aware of a strange stirring in the back of his mind. It had started as a soft whisper, the susurration sliding behind his thoughts like a snake. In a less controlled mind, it could easily have been mistaken for the quiet ponderings that solitude often inspired, but to Geralt it was an intruder, sinister and hazy, but growing steadily... a fog billowing out over still waters.

He left Roach at the base of the cliff, following Jaskier’s dusty bootprints up the narrow path and to the entrance. The bard had travelled far in a short amount of time, no doubt led on by that quiet influence in the back of his mind with as much trust and thoughtless action as Roach had in accompanying the witcher on his way. Led like a lamb to slaughter… And he’d no doubt seen the cave as a welcome shelter, though Geralt doubted the bard had noticed the gathering clouds and faint scent of rain on the horizon. He’d probably just wanted a nice, quiet place to rest his head, thinking the cave would offer just such an opportunity and not even considering that every creature within miles would have thought exactly the same, some of them less friendly than others.

But the cave was small, too small for any of the predatory creatures that might have roamed the hills nearby. And there was something strange about it, a scent of fish and salt in the air that deepened the lines creasing Geralt’s brow. A closer examination revealed the familiar shapes of the bard’s pack and lute case tucked around the corner at the back of the cave. Both seemed untouched by any scavenging animal, but the scent of the sea was stronger, as was the ominous rumble of waves against rock. And something else hung in the air, the dusty, sour stench of decay and death that coiled around the witcher’s heart like the bloodied claws of a monster.

Before venturing any further, Geralt took Jaskier’s things back to where Roach waited in the grassy clearing below, fastening them securely to the saddle along with the bulkier portions of his armor. The cave was too narrow to allow for quick maneuvering in a fight, and the heavy leather pauldrons and cuirass could snag on the rock and slow him down. Whatever this Shadow was, it had killed in that cave, left the bodies to rot, and he did not intend to add his own to that mass grave by getting himself wedged somewhere where he couldn’t raise a sword. Roach stomped her hoof, and he leaned back as she tossed her mane in his face.

“Alright...” He tucked her reins back beneath the saddle where they wouldn’t catch on any brambles. “No need to rub it in.” He gave her a gentle pat on her neck and she nodded as if she understood. “You were right. He’s in trouble, as usual.” Took him all of half a day to find the most dangerous place within twenty miles. The bard had an uncanny nose for trouble and less sense of self-preservation than a particularly well-groomed pinecone.

Geralt took with him a selection of potions, tucked away safely in the pouch on his belt, as well as the silver sword. Borch hadn’t been able to shed any light on how the fight would go, or even if a weapon made of steel or silver would have any effect on a creature known as The Shadow. Better to be prepared than to go in expecting to haul Jaskier out by his scruff without a fight and get taken by surprise.

Back at the narrow passageway in the recesses of the cave, the scent of death was just as strong, pushed along by the wind off whatever magic sea lay ahead in the dark. Geralt moved slowly, cautiously, listening for any sign of the bard or the monster, but all he heard were the distant sigh of waves and the occasional call of a seabird. Bats rustled in the cavern above as the passage widened, the sound of their leather-winged shifting barely audible behind the crash of water on stone that filled the cave as if it were a seaside grotto and not the landlocked mountain hole it had appeared to be.

A faint glow ahead offered just enough light to see the jagged edge of a pit a few feet beyond Geralt’s boots. The source of the light was at the bottom, but the stench of death and decay that filled the air was overwhelming. Even a bard unaccustomed to life on the road would know better than to go any further than this narrow passage. He’d have to be blind and have no sense of smell to even consider clambering down that pit to where the swirl of a portal was barely visible, the scent of the sea bringing with it only more stale death from wherever that magic doorway led.

Geralt edged forward, grimacing down into the pit as the slope he’d thought was composed of rocks became clearer in his sight.

Bone.

Bone and sinew and ragged scraps of fur piled high, the whole height of the pit, which had to be twenty feet or more. Years, decades, centuries even of death, and right down the center a trail of dislodged detritus, the spindle-like bones of bat wings and rats’ ribs shifted and scattering down into the pit, a clear sign of Jaskier’s path, and Geralt was certain, beyond any doubt, that the bard had been forced down that mountain of death. Forced, or led, or otherwise coerced, because there was no way under the sun the same man who complained about the smell of his own sweat after a few hours’ walk would willingly venture down such a well of decay as this.

But the lurking presence in the back of his mind was stronger here, pacing circles around his thoughts like a starving animal. Taking in a breath of stale air, Geralt picked his way carefully down the slope, bone crunching and crumbling under his weight. All manner of creatures were represented in the pile, from the delicate bones of birds and bats to the thicker, sturdier shapes of deer, sunken scraps of flesh and fur still clinging to the bone like ragged tents on a battlefield. Skulls with hollow eyes watched him, then turned away as his movement dislodged them and sent those empty sockets tumbling down to the stone floor below.

Geralt brushed himself off at the bottom, the stink of decay matched now by the tang of salt and sea. Against the far wall, a portal swirled the pebbles and bone-dust off the cavern floor into a twirling dance around its edges. The light it gave off was pale and sickly, but enough to illuminate the pair of skeletons against the wall to its right. One was a dwarf, the largest bone of its leg snapped in two, its hands buried in the treacherous slope as if he’d tried to claw his way out of the pit. The cold and damp of the cave had shown no mercy to the remains, the skin long since rotted away. Dwarves had not inhabited these hills for years, and the tattered remains of his clothing gave no hint as to his clan or home.

The second skeleton was in a similar state, laid out across the floor away from the slope, the finery of his garments worn away to dust by the passage of time, leaving only the strands of gold that had once embroidered his robes. A mage, Geralt supposed, examining the sigil etched into the wall beside the portal. It explained how the doorway was able to remain open for so long. Usually it took a mage’s active concentration to keep a portal open. This one was held in place long after its maker’s death… and against its maker’s will, if the dagger in the mage’s skeletal fingers was anything to go by. The mage had collapsed, knife outstretched toward the sigil, but something had ended his life before he could disrupt the careful carvings in the wall.

There was no sign of Jaskier, save the trail of tiny bones leading up to the swirling edge of the portal, and the witcher allowed himself a brief breath of exasperation before steeling himself and stepping through. 

The cool silk touch of magic washed over him and Geralt blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. With a few darting looks, he established his surroundings as a stone room, round and wide, with a single arched window with a waist-high sill to his left that ran the full height of the wall. Across the room from where he stood, a massive fireplace loomed empty and unadorned, any wood or ash long since crumbled and blown away by the sea winds that tumbled past the bare window, sending a fine misty spray off the taller crests to scatter a few feet into the room.

To his right stood an old oak table and a few chairs, all simple in their design and bearing an ashen layer of dust and cobwebs. The rafters overhead were in the same state, some with scraps of straw or twigs from nests long since abandoned, their crisscrossing lines reaching up to the conical peak a good hundred feet or more overhead without a single crack or crumbling stone to be seen, as if time had neglected to touch the structure itself.

And there, laid out on his back in front of the fireplace as if he’d run inside and tripped, was Jaskier, staring into the rafters. Geralt’s first instinct was to storm up to the bard and give him a good kick for all the trouble he’d caused, leading him on a wild goose chase through the foothills, supposedly beset by monsters and in need of rescue, only to turn up daydreaming in an empty room. But something wasn’t right about the bard’s empty expression, the uncomfortable sprawling of his limbs. Grip tightening on his sword, Geralt edged closer. 

There was no sign of any other life in the room apart from the two of them. No claw marks marred the stone floor, no skeletal remnants of meals cluttered up a corner, no sign of anything living or dead, until he moved close enough to make out the dried-out remains of a body tucked back in the shadows beside the fireplace. A man, chained to the stone wall by both wrists, jaw gaping in an ancient scream. A prisoner, maybe, but then why the portal? Why the mountain of dead on the other side? And why was Jaskier, usually endlessly blathering on about nothing and everything, so very, very quiet?

Cautiously, Geralt moved closer. Jaskier was breathing, but otherwise hadn’t moved a muscle or shown any sign he’d registered Geralt’s presence. He was about to call the bard’s name, attempt to rouse him, when Jaskier blinked slowly, then pushed up comfortably onto his elbows, turning a sunny smile on the witcher.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Sorry to say we seem to have wasted our time here, though,” he said, dusting his scarlet coat and trousers as he stood up. “Nothing much to see here, really. Just a lot of water, a lot of sky, and that poor idiot over there.” One hand waved in the general direction of the skeleton as Jaskier strolled to meet Geralt, clapping him on the shoulder on his way back to the portal. “Come on, then. Let’s get go- ow. What are you doing?” 

Geralt kept a firm hold on the bard’s wrist, ignoring the token struggles in favor of scrutinizing him closely. There was no outward sign that anything was amiss. The jaunty, carefree tone was typical of Jaskier’s lighthearted attitude, but that was exactly why it felt wrong. No comment on the portal, no poetic description of their ancient surroundings, not even a wordy reference to the twenty-foot tower of rot and decay just on the other side of the portal - all of which were topics Jaskier would normally have flitted between like a distracted hummingbird. The flippant dismissal of the whole situation was absolutely not normal for the bard, and Geralt could feel the wrongness of it creeping up his spine, just as clearly as he could now feel the magic thrumming beneath the bard’s skin.

“Not so fast,” he growled, watching Jaskier’s expression closely. “What do you remember?” 

The bard scoffed, arm now warily motionless in the witcher’s grasp. 

“Remember from what? My memory’s fine. Don’t tell me the White Wolf’s mind has started to fail him in his old age.” 

“Hmm…” Geralt watched him for a moment more before making up his mind with a small shake of his head. He moved quickly, hauling the bard over to one of the rickety chairs, dropping him into it, and standing firmly in front of him. 

“Geralt, you’re being rid-”

“I’m not buying it,” Geralt growled, keeping his unease hidden behind a tense jaw and firm grip on the hilt of his sword. “So you can cut the act and speak plainly. What are you?” 

The bard’s fidgeting stilled immediately. His lips curved upward in a small, sly smile. 

“Well… I am a little rusty, I suppose. It’s been a long, long time since I had the chance to converse with anybody, after all, let alone someone as astute as a witcher,” he said with Jaskier’s voice, but with a haughtiness entirely foreign to the man. “And since you’re here, I assume you know more or less ‘what I am’. Am I right?” 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed but he gave no response.

“I welcome you most warmly into my sparse abode here. You’re just the sort of capable individual I’ve been hoping to meet. Because, honestly, the bard here…” He cast his gaze over his own arms and comfortably crossed legs, wincing a little. “He makes an amusing companion, I’m sure you know, but you and I… now, _we_ could-”

“Let me stop you there.” The witcher forced down his own growing apprehension, schooling his features into an expression of unimpressed neutrality. “I’m not interested in any partnership. Let him go.” 

“There is no room for your demands here, witcher,” the creature said, rising from the chair to stand directly in front of Geralt, light blue eyes studying him unconcernedly. “What I’m offering, if you’ve the wit to take it, is the freedom to do as you please without fretting over a town or king’s displeasure. You could have your enemies dead at your feet and sweet Yennefer back in your bed by sundown.” Jaskier stepped back with a little tilt of his head. “All in exchange for a mutually-beneficial partnership with me.” 

“You seem very eager to abandon your current partner.” Geralt watched as the bard’s eyes ticked to the side, lighting momentarily on the portal across the room before returning to meet his gaze. Geralt considered the possibility that the creature could be lying through the bard’s teeth, that Jaskier could be dead, a hollowed-out shell for this thing to use as it pleased, but the thought twisted in his stomach and he put it aside as quickly as it came. He would deal with that only if it proved to be the truth. For now, he had to remain focused. Mere swordplay was out of the question here. He couldn’t fight the way he was used to, and the silver sword hung heavy in his grasp. This would have to be a battle of wills and words, a careful dance in dialogue until he could coax the creature into the open. 

He kept his attention on the bard’s movements, prepared to mirror each step to keep himself between the creature and the portal it so clearly longed to reach. 

“Tell me... just what sort of ‘mutual benefit’ is _he_ getting from all this?” Geralt asked, with a jerk of his chin to indicate Jaskier.

“At the moment?” A careless shrug, like many he’d seen the bard offer. “The chance to watch a stronger mind than his at work.”

“He sees that every day. Hardly a benefit.” Geralt could picture the bard’s affronted expression, almost hear his exaggerated gasp, but it seemed the creature was in full control here and it didn’t react in the slightest.

“A more impressive demonstration of my abilities will require rather more room to work,” it said, shrugging. “You’re welcome to join me.” As it spoke, the creature circled round Geralt, confident as a lord in his own hall, and beckoned the witcher to follow. It took only two long strides and a firm hand on the bard’s chest to stop him in his tracks.

“You’re in a hurry,” he growled. “That door’s been open for centuries. Why so eager now… unless…?” The creature cast another longing look at the portal and it all made sense. “You need him. You can’t cross without a host.” 

The facade of cheer dropped away, replaced by a glare colder than the sea breeze and a bitter note that didn’t suit the younger man’s voice.  
“Oh, so clever,” he jeered, tapping his temple as he backed out of reach once more. “Why else do you think I’d have spent years upon years in this living tomb? They thought I’d die, you know, but they were wrong. They thought I’d waste away and disappear, but instead I starved… and _starved!_ ”

The creature lunged forward in an attempt to slip past the witcher, but Geralt’s fist at the back of his crimson jacket and a pivot redirected the bard’s momentum, sending the smaller man stumbling back the opposite direction. The witcher resumed his place in the middle of the room, the creature between him and the looming shadow of the fireplace, with plenty of space between them should it make another attempt at rushing past him. 

“Starved? You’ve hardly starved, though I doubt bats and birds and the occasional unfortunate dwarf did much to fill your belly. Were they not good enough for you? Why not take one of them as host and be done with this place?” 

“They’re not _enough_ ,” the thing hissed back at the witcher, a faint tremor starting in its hands as it turned to pace, eyes always flashing between him and the exit. “Could you crush your own skull and bones, and wriggle what’s left through a keyhole? To take a man is limiting enough, but at least I’ve not maimed myself in the taking!” 

So it did have limits then. The mountain of bones in that cave was a tool. It couldn’t escape in them so it used them, bit by bit, bone by bone, building itself a ladder to freedom in the hopes that some larger, more intelligent thing would come wandering by and, thanks to the bones of those who’d come before, not fall to his death before he could be stolen, worn, and used as a vessel for an ancient hunger. The creature continued to pace, sneering at him as it spoke. 

“I’d almost forgotten how much fear a man can hold. This one lets me anywhere I want, too, free passage through every last memory, like a feast laid out in welcome. Such a generous host - he’s almost taken the edge off my hunger.” 

It didn’t eat them, the corpses outside its door. The revelation made something twist painfully in Geralt’s gut, because it came with the knowledge that while Jaskier might still be alive, this thing was feeding off him… had been feeding off him from the moment he’d stepped through that portal. Whether it consumed memories or emotions or the mind itself was unclear, but each option was equally sickening and the thought drew his voice into a menacing growl.

“Don’t get too comfortable… You can’t keep him.”

That stopped the creature where it stood, outrage pinching Jaskier’s face, and Geralt could hear his teeth grind before it paused, blinked, and said, “You’re here for _him._ ” The words held both question and statement, simultaneously baffled and triumphant in a way that put Geralt even more on edge. “You’re not out a-hunting at all, are you, witcher? Well, how badly do you want your bard back, then?” Before Geralt could move, it drew the short dagger at Jaskier’s belt and sliced, hard and quick, across the bard’s empty palm; droplets of blood tapped to the stone floor as the metallic scent clashed with the brine surrounding them. “If I slowly cut him into little slivers of meat, will that inspire you reconsider my proposal?” 

Geralt took a slow, calming breath. Instinct had demanded he throw his blade, kill the enemy before it could cut into the bard’s flesh, but bard and enemy were one and the same. He couldn’t work on pure instinct until he could get that monster to face him without using Jaskier as both shield and weapon. Accepting the creature’s offer was out of the question as well. Geralt was not in the habit of letting anyone get close to him, and the thought of having something burrow under his skin, invade his mind, and take control was unthinkable, and he doubted this monster would be as soft and subtle in its taking as Yennefer had been the first time they’d met. And Geralt was fairly certain the creature’s intentions with him would be more than a few petty vengeances.

But if he refused… The blood dripping all over the bard’s fine leather boots was evidence enough of what would happen if he turned the creature down. The Witcher who lived and worked alone, killing monsters for gold and never needing more than the companionship of a loyal horse, was coming to terms with the fact that a part of him had known even as those cruel words left his lips on the mountainside, that Jaskier was his friend. And the swift slash that had left the bard’s hand and arm bloody had tightened something in his chest, sending arcs of pain shooting along his clenched jaw. Drawing his gaze from the bloodstained stone, Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes and spoke in a slow, measured tone.

“If you want to barter, you’ll have to prove he’s alive. Let me talk to him.” 

A satisfied smile spread across Jaskier’s face, before the sudden scent of fear billowed out over the room. The bard dropped the knife with a clatter, bloody fist clenched against his chest as he stared across at Geralt with terror in his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

“If you want to barter, you’ll have to prove he’s alive. Let me talk to him.” 

Jaskier had been _trying_ to talk to Geralt from the moment he’d seen the witcher miraculously looming over him. To ask how he’d found him, beg him to help, to get the shadows out of his head. But instead the shadows had pulled him upright, spread his lips in a smile, and pushed his own voice out in words he had no intention of saying. The sensation of something fingering through his memories like a deck of cards, reaching into his bones to gesture and walk was uniquely horrifying in itself, but even worse was the sense of it drawing on Jaskier’s fear like a parched drunkard. 

If he could have just shut off the tap, he would have. Unsurprisingly, though, finding inner peace and calm was incredibly difficult when a shadow-monster was in your head and wearing your body. Geralt had seen through the weak imitation of Jaskier immediately, thank the gods. But then it had snaked deeper into his memory, oozing sickening satisfaction in the violation; it dangled Yennefer’s name in front of the witcher’s face like a choice cut of meat, and no amount of hammering and shouting Jaskier did from his imprisonment created a single waver in the creature’s voice - _his_ voice, stolen and turned for evil. 

Geralt seemed unusually wary, silver sword hovering inches from the stone, watching every movement of Jaskier’s hijacked body. He’d assumed the witcher had already wandered off in search of a new contract and the silence he clearly yearned for; it was a moment straight out of a story to see him standing a few feet away, clearly ready for a fight. He’d worked out the portal and the possession already, but there was no way for Jaskier to convey to him the kind of cruelty and malice this creature was made of. With every self-pleased shift of the thing’s mind inside Jaskier’s, the bard was assaulted by flashes of what it desired, something it undoubtedly did not intend. 

This shadow had hunted before, and was desperate to do so again. A town with streets muddied with blood, hearths and tables spattered with it. Wild-eyed villagers, armed with anything they could pick up, everyone suspecting everyone else as the shadow leaped from mind to mind. With everyone’s knives, shovels, and staves marked with blood, who could be sure who had been defending their own family or butchering someone else’s? Wearing the body of one helpless person after another, it had butchered over half the small town’s population and maimed still more, glutting itself on the raw fear until the mages had finally, finally trapped it.

The monster carved Jaskier’s palm open with his own dagger, but he still couldn’t make a sound, didn’t even feel his heartbeat rise with the sudden pain. Until Geralt said, “Let me talk to him,” in a steely tone he’d never known any sentient being to argue with, and something slithered away, withdrew. Then suddenly it was Jaskier breathing again, Jaskier clutching his throbbing hand and looking across at the familiar golden glare. The witcher looked grim, jaw squared and stance ready, but he didn’t know, hadn’t seen those bloody streets, and Jaskier didn’t hesitate when he found his voice returned to him. 

“Geralt, don’t let it out, whatever you do - kill me if you have to, but don’t-” 

His lungs seized. They simply wouldn’t move, wouldn’t take in any air. As he gaped silently, panic rising as his chest spasmed uselessly, he saw Geralt’s hand move, and wondered for a moment if this was one of Geralt’s spells, but the flash of alarm on the older man’s face said otherwise. And then all Jaskier could focus on was his empty lungs and the fact that he _couldn’t breathe._

Heavy boots scraped the stone nearby as the bard’s knees hit the ground, but there was nothing the witcher could do, or Jaskier knew he’d have done it already. As the sound of the sea blurred into a low buzz and his vision tipped, a deeper roar joined the sea’s rush. 

“Enough!” 

The shadows surged forward, imprisoning Jaskier again, but also dragging a long breath into his desperate body. Jaskier scrambled to press himself small into the back of his own mind, letting the creature push his body up once more, dust off his bloodied hands, and keep his body breathing. Before the creature could say anything, Geralt had taken another step forward, close enough Jaskier could see the muscles tense and jump in the witcher’s jaw. 

“So he’s alive,” Geralt stated, colder than the sea spray. “But how powerful can you be if you have to hide your face behind his?” Under other circumstances, Jaskier would have taken open offense to the derision in the man’s tone; there were countless individuals who had demonstrated their clear preference for Jaskier’s fine features, among other qualities. But the witcher’s head tilted to the side, eyes keen, as if considering the creature’s offer, and while the affectation didn’t fool Jaskier for a moment, the creature wasn’t so discerning. 

It forced a chuckle from Jaskier’s throat, and then his chest seized again, this time bringing burning pain with it. Something wrenched deep inside, wringing him out as his vision went black; he was shaking, trapped as something poured out of him in billows. It felt like screaming, or like vomiting, and he faintly hoped he wasn’t doing both of those things also.

Finally, it ended, and he couldn’t help a whimper as he gagged on the taste of blood, throat painfully raw. He clamped his mouth shut again immediately when something like smoke cupped his face and pulled him up from his hands and knees, looping itself snug as a hangman’s noose around his throat.

Nearby, Geralt still stood with sword in hand, battle-ready glower in place, but he only spared a fleeting look at Jaskier. The witcher’s attention was understandably fixed on the soot-black nightmare looming over them both. Almost twice Jaskier’s height, it was shriveled thin as a dry corpse, wreathed in shadows like smoke that wafted slowly in the breeze. One grotesquely long arm was lazily lifted, a finger extended toward Jaskier that elongated and drifted like a prisoner’s collar around his neck.

He didn’t look at its face. Once had been more than enough to impress the empty sockets and round, seeking mouth on Jaskier’s memory forever, and he didn’t dare turn his head, acutely aware of the pressure encircling his throat. Instead he watched Geralt, who looked unflinchingly back into the monster’s face as its laughter echoed against the tower’s high roof like a rockslide. 

_How does this face suit you, witcher?_ it asked, like someone shouting from inside a tomb, and from the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw the creature draw itself up as if in pride.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

The manner in which it emerged had been startling, and Geralt had taken a step back as clouds of smoke erupted from the bard’s mouth, pouring out of him with the hollow howling of wind in a cave. The bard himself was on hands and knees, almost on his face as his arms shook and he swallowed with a grimace, voicing only a small sound of pain. Finally face to face with the monster, Geralt took a moment to consider his options, feigning interest in examining the shadowed rail-thin body. 

It had form, could potentially be harmed, and silver had clearly been the right choice, but creatures that could fluctuate between physical and ethereal forms were far from common, and he’d never faced one that could wear a human like a disguise while the host remained alive. Doppelgangers stole faces, but their victims were killed by their methods. This was something new. The potions weighing his belt at his hip wouldn’t do him any good here. There was no guarantee it wouldn’t leap back into the bard the minute he took them, and enhanced senses and strength wouldn’t help him if the monster hid inside Jaskier’s body again. 

Geralt watched the shadowed noose snake around Jaskier’s neck, pulling him upright, and followed it up the unnaturally extended limb and to the monster’s empty sockets. He could still smell blood and the small amount he had seen staining the bard’s lips caused his next words to be forced between clenched teeth.

“You’re taller than I expected.” 

It swelled slightly, sending wisps of sulphuric smoke spiraling, and said, _You begin to see how this could benefit us both. My power and your skill would gain us everything this mortal plain could offer._

Geralt took a slow, measured step closer, disguising it with the gesture of his blade toward the skeleton in the corner by the fireplace. 

“If a mage wasn’t enough for you, what guarantee do I have that a witcher will be? If I’m going to agree to this partnership, I’ll need to know more.” Geralt glanced at Jaskier as the bard took in a breath to speak, his expression stating all too clearly what he thought of Geralt considering this deal. But the smoky noose tightened fractionally and no sound escaped the bard’s lips. Still in control then, even if it wasn’t puppeteering Jaskier from the inside. 

_This mage was no warrior_ , the creature replied, dismal voice somehow mocking. _He was unmanned by the very sight of me, and sought to undo what his own curiosity had turned loose. After making me the device for his revenge, he became spineless. He rejected my power as abhorrent and begged like a coward to be imprisoned here, believing I was still bound to him like a millstone around my neck. They all found that to be less than true._

“Sounds like you’ve already had your vengeance.” He took a few more steps forward, placing his sword point down on the floor and resting his hands on it casually. It would take less than a second to have the blade in hand. Three to bring it down on its mark and cast Aard. Two more to take hold of the bard’s jacket and run. They could get out of this place and leave the beast to starve as its captors had intended. He just needed to keep it talking. 

Jaskier was watching him urgently and Geralt shot him a look that he hoped would help calm the bard’s racing heart. Geralt looked pointedly from the bard, to his blade, then to the shadowed arm stretched unnaturally long between the monster and Jaskier’s neck. Hoping that would be enough to hint at his plan and prevent Jaskier from doing anything stupid to screw it up, Geralt turned his attention back to the towering shadow in front of him.

“I know what it is to hate one’s maker. But if he’s already dead, what plans do you have that require a witcher’s skills?” 

_None that would inconvenience one such as you. Our visions are well-aligned, I think…. We could begin at the beginning, and call upon the one you call maker. Open his eyes to the truth that you have already outstripped his own abilities; show him in intricate detail how he has hurt you…_ The subtle pause between those words and the creature’s next _...and ensure he will never harm another_ … was too small to be caught by most, but more than enough for Geralt to see through the monster’s posturing to the ravenous hunger for blood lurking beneath.

_Then we shall travel at your will, through village and town, court and castle, reminding the rabble why they ought to fear a witcher. I shall be fed and you shall be fulfilled._

“The ‘rabble’ have fear enough.” Geralt let a slow smile part his lips, gazing up into those empty sockets with a feral sneer. “The only one that needs reminding is you.” 

Silver flashed through the air, slicing through the monster’s arm with the sizzle of burning flesh, and the tendril of smoke around Jaskier’s neck dropped away like sand without an hourglass to hold its shape. Seconds later, the creature was thrown back against the stone wall by the blast of magic and Geralt turned, taking Jaskier by his collar to haul him as fast as he could to the portal.

The bard matched his pace for once, adrenaline audible in his hammering heart, but a deep wail like a hurricane rose behind them, and a wall of clinging darkness crashed over them both, staggering Geralt and nearly felling Jaskier. Fist still clenched in the stitched leather, Geralt pulled them in the direction of the portal, but heard Jaskier retch and the darkness suddenly condensed itself, funneling down the younger man’s throat as he pawed and choked.

“Jaskier!” Geralt stumbled as the bard writhed from the coat’s sleeves, wheezing smoke. Wild-eyed, Jaskier lunged across the room, Geralt close behind as the bard’s bloody hand snatched up the dagger with a sharp ring of metal on stone, and pressed the edge of the stained blade tight against his own throat. Geralt froze, frustration warring with fear inside him, the scarlet jacket hanging in his grip as he watched the other man bare his teeth and shout, “I am done with your games, witcher! Either submit to me or watch him die!” 

Geralt didn’t respond. He hated this deadly dance of words, exchanging jibes and pleasantries when he would much rather just gut the monster and be on his way. The shadow had moved far faster than he’d expected, but the witcher’s slip in judgement would _not_ cost Jaskier his life. Geralt was used to living with his own death just over the horizon. He prepared for every fight as best he could, but if ever there turned out to be two kikimoras instead of one, the day could be his last, and he had accepted that long ago. 

The thought of Jaskier’s death, though, was drastically different. Jaskier lived life with his heart and hope in the future, always looking ahead to the next day, the next song, the next adventure… and just as the fury in Geralt’s chest reached its boiling point, he felt his heart settle in its choice. Whatever the cost, Jaskier would leave this place alive. 

The tang of fresh blood cut through the air as bright lines of blood ran down the bard’s neck, staining the collar of his blue shirt purple. The threat was enough to send Geralt’s already pounding heart howling with fury. 

“One condition.” The words left his lips before he could think better of them, rage shaking his voice into a deep growl. “You let him go, _unharmed_ , and then take this body if you can.” 

As he’d expected, the creature did not hesitate to accept the offer. Once again, Jaskier buckled as darkness billowed from his mouth, reforming briefly in the air before descending upon Geralt. It rushed into him like an endless breath, suffocating in its enormity, the monster burrowing through every vein with a seeking hunger that rankled as it met with resistance. He coughed, dropping to one knee as the creature burned in his mind, clawed at the defenses he’d built up around his thoughts. It was strong, centuries of hate and hunger giving it a strength he knew he couldn’t hold off for long.

“Geralt?” The younger man had pushed himself up, eyes huge, dagger still clenched reflexively in his hand, and Geralt forced his voice past the choking smoke.

“Go.” 

\------------------------------------------------------------

Jaskier pushed himself up on shaking arms, swallowing painfully against the rush of nausea from being wrung inside-out by the demon-spirit-thing. Only the thinnest shadows hung in the air between him and Geralt, melting like fog, leaving only the grey light of the wide window, and Jaskier could have cried with relief. Except when he looked at the witcher, the white-haired man was down on a knee, eyes almost glowing in a gaze turned desperately inward, dark smoke huffing between his lips as he fought against the creature’s invasion.

“Geralt?”

This was part of the plan. It had to be. Some monsters he allowed to swallow him in order to destroy them; this one he swallowed himself in order to destroy it. Beautiful parallelism, perfect for song - but then Geralt turned that intense glare on Jaskier and groaned, “Go,” the word reaching him on a strained exhalation that hissed black between his lips.  
Jaskier struggled to his feet, stammering, “I- I’m… I can’t just leave you like this. Tell me how to help.” In reply, the witcher only screwed his eyes shut with a grimace and lurched to his feet, blindly catching Jaskier’s arm and shoving him toward the portal.

“ _Go!_ Break the sigil on the other side… to close the portal.” 

Right - the plan, of course, this was all part of the plan, and he scrambled to obey, dagger still tight in his fist. He skidded to a halt close enough to the swirling magic to feel it lift the hairs on the back of his neck, and slung his abandoned jacket - and more importantly, his notebook contained in its pocket - through to the other side, before looking back with a frown as Geralt pulled himself upright with an effort. If the portal shut, that left Geralt fighting this thing alone, miles or countries or whole dimensions away from the cave on the other side, and the self-sacrificing fool was just self-sacrificing enough to order Jaskier to safety and throw his own life to the winds. Ten seconds. If he wasn’t over here in ten seconds, Jaskier would obey, but-

But Geralt strode up swiftly, smoke gone, urgency in every line of his body, and Jaskier felt the weight of indecision lift from his shoulders. 

“Oh, thank the gods. I can’t believe you nearly made me-” Geralt’s hands fisted in his shirt, and Jaskier hit the wall hard enough the world flashed white, before the witcher filled his vision again, teeth bared in a savage smile.

“You should have listened to him, bard.” His voice sounded wrong, gleeful, and his golden eyes were wild as he drove a fist like a battering ram into Jaskier’s gut. He doubled over, Geralt’s name warped into a groan as his dagger clattered away out of reach by their feet. 

The thing wearing Geralt’s body flinched suddenly, and Jaskier’s heart leaped desperately at the renewed spill of smoke from the other man’s lips. If he could stall long enough, give Geralt enough time to fight…. But then the unnatural smile was back, and the witcher chuckled, “Oh, I’ve missed this. Fury on one side and fear on the other, the perfect combination!” 

For a blurred moment, Jaskier was airborne, thrown like a pebble across the room to crash into unforgiving stone. Head spinning, he pushed his battered body up, hoping to get ahead, get away, but the gloating creature made good use of Geralt’s long stride and captured Jaskier’s collar in two iron hands that slammed him back against the stone. His own grip didn’t move the witcher’s wrists even a hair, and words spilled out of him like they could fill the space between them and force the larger man back a step. 

“All right, you’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? Huh? You’ve got yourself a big, mean witcher to go terrorizing people with,” he stammered past the knuckles that dug into his throat, not quite sure what he hoped to accomplish by chatting the thing up. Geralt had already tried talking to it, but maybe someone known for his way with words would have more luck? “Not all it’s cracked up to be, a witcher for company. You might regret-”

This time the table broke his landing, crashing to a slant that left him sprawled in a shambles of splintered wood. A sharper pain stood out from the orchestra of throbbing bruises, dashing along his ribs like a violin’s scream, warning him the table wasn’t the only thing damaged in their abrupt meeting. But he had no time to lick his wounds, not with Geralt strolling closer, rolling out his shoulders. A few feet away, the witcher’s silver sword gleamed on the ground, forgotten, and Jaskier lunged for it, heedless of the renewed bolt of pain in his side. 

The blade was heavier than he’d expected, swinging up in his double-handed grip to waver between Geralt’s chest and face. Taking courage from the surprise on the other man’s face, the bard firmed his stance and expression, speaking as strongly as he could past what felt nastily like a broken rib, “Right, now you’re gonna stay right there, because I don’t want to have to use this.” Not that his childhood lessons with a blade had prepared him in any way for close combat with a longsword, but the creature didn’t know that. He was fairly sure its hungry groping through his memories hadn’t told it everything - or at least, he prayed that was the case. “Geralt? Could use a little backup, in your own time, you know…” Unfortunately, he couldn’t hide the way his voice had climbed a few notches on the oh-so-familiar ladder of panic, and the creature noticed.

“You’re going to kill me with that sword? You can barely lift it,” it sneered, mere inches from leaning onto the sword’s blade itself, before simply striking the flat of the blade aside with one hand and continuing its advance.

Cursing, Jaskier stumbled back, sword firmly between him and the creature, but he was running out of space to maneuver, not to mention the energy to do so. Nausea dropped heavily into his stomach at the thought of actually using the weapon against Geralt, but he knew Geralt would tell him to defend himself. He was probably yelling himself hoarse at Jaskier right now, in fact, and if Jaskier was dead, he couldn’t very well help Geralt stop this creature from going through the blasted portal, could he? 

His swing was clumsy, the unfamiliar weight twisting him off-balance, and didn’t even earn a blink from the creature; it kept coming, and desperation fueled Jaskier’s second effort, blade low with all his weight behind it. He felt it strike home deep in the witcher’s calf, the blade coming away bloody as Geralt grunted in surprise. For a brief moment, the creature looked down at the wound as if stunned. Then those golden eyes fixed on him, narrowed and blazing, and before the bard could lift the sword again, Geralt rushed forward, crushing his wrist in a vice that ground his bones together, hilt slipping through numb fingers. 

The punch to the face that followed sent him reeling, ears ringing as Geralt’s voice filled the small tower, crowing, “That’s your best, is it?” but even as another blow came close in its wake, some detached, observant part of Jaskier’s mind noted that the blows lacked the full murderous force Geralt was capable of. Not that it helped right now, because Jaskier’s legs were crumbling like rot-weak logs beneath him, rebelling against the past day’s abuse and exertion at the worst possible time. 

But a kick that should have broken his jaw only clipped his chin instead, and he _knew_ that was Geralt’s doing, still warring with this monster on the inside. Weapons gone, he spat blood and curled up tight against the onslaught, saving what breath wasn’t being knocked from his body for hoarse words, always more words, because if he could give Geralt some kind of tether to anchor himself and retake control, that would save them both, so he heaved in breath to say, “Doesn’t matter what- ...what you do me - because Gera-... alt, _gods_ , is gonna make you wish you’d….” 

A hand fisted in his shirt between his shoulder blades, stitches popping as he was dragged, quick and strong, across the stone and the crash of waves grew louder. Sudden understanding sent panic through his limbs, and he managed to find purchase for his hands in Geralt’s sleeve just as the creature slammed him against the low windowsill, pushing him out so that only the sill against Jaskier’s lower back and their tangled arms kept the bard suspended in place.

He wedged his heels hard against the wall, breath coming in bursts as he tried not to lose his head completely at the thought of the long drop beneath him. The taste of terror on the back of his tongue was a sharper metallic tang over the blood. The creature cocked its head as it looked down at him, letting out a short “hmm” that sounded almost Geralt-like, and said, “So you do have a little more fear in you, then,” like he’d been pleasantly surprised by finding a flask of wine he’d forgotten. And yes, indeed, Jaskier had plenty of fear to go around, because whether he hit rocks or sea, he was equally dead at this height, and though shadows now seeped steady and constant through Geralt’s teeth like he was a dragon made mortal, that wasn’t much reassurance at this point.

And of course, the only thing his brain offered his tongue at that moment was, “You’re not gonna fool anybody out there.” A pale eyebrow quirked, and Jaskier clung to the tiny verbal foothold as he twisted his fingers more tightly into the dark sleeve by his head and babbled on, “I mean, come on! People would believe _I’m_ a witcher before they’ll fall for this cheap charade you’re putting on here! Sure, you’ve got the swagger and the violence, I grant you that, but out there, people know him, people he’s saved, wives and- and children and families, and they’ll know in a heartbeat you’re not him.” The witcher’s feet were planted immovably, one between Jaskier’s braced boots, free hand against the wall as he leaned out, amusement fading into a snarl as Jaskier croaked, “Geralt’s a hero.” 

“A witcher, hero?” It laughed, Geralt’s voice sounding so very wrong with the streak of malice in the words. It leaned in, sulphurous black smoke on every breath, breathed between teeth bared in a power-drunk smile. “A witcher is a monster who has forgotten its place… and together we will kill, and kill, and kill again… until he remembers it. Men, women, wee babes slaughtered in their cradles until the whole world is _blackened_ with terror!” It flinched, letting out a gravelly chuckle as the smoke between its teeth began to lessen. “And no matter how hard your witcher fights… he will fail them, each and every one… as he has failed you.” 

Jaskier felt Geralt’s wrist flex under his hands, ready to drop him, and took his chance. The real Geralt would never have left himself open to the vicious barroom brawl kick he delivered, but the bard still felt a wrench of empathy when the larger man doubled over with a snarled curse, grip going slack enough for Jaskier to claw for the window’s edge and heave himself back inside. Already he heard the bestial growl rising behind him as his vision narrowed to the small dagger ten feet away by the wall, and he forced a last burst of speed from his body.

He was too slow. 

His fingers closed around the hilt just as the creature caught him; his hasty slice across Geralt’s arm cut flesh and fabric, but did nothing to slow the thing in his friend’s body. In an instant it had wrested the knife from him and crushed him against the wall with a hand around Jaskier’s throat. Even all the bard’s strength could barely pry Geralt’s hand away enough to let him draw breath.

“ _Enough_ ,” it breathed in Geralt’s voice, strained and angry, and at least Jaskier had managed that much, one bard against whatever this awful thing was. “Now you’re going to sing one last song for me, bard, and then we’ll part ways…” The dagger dug painfully into his abdomen, and Jaskier froze. Already his hasty breaths had drawn a burning line where the blade dragged against his skin, and he very much doubted Geralt would be able to pull this particular punch.

But Geralt was there, was listening, if the sudden gust of shadow the creature choked on was any indication, and if Jaskier was about to be horribly and messily slain, he was not going to be remembered as a bard who went down silently. 

“Geralt, this is _not_ your fault,” he rasped, “so get that through your thick head right now.” The creature was visibly distracted, shaking its head like a stung wolf, wreathed in exhaled smoke, but it quickly turned back to Jaskier and spat, “Let’s give the witcher a front-row seat for your finale, eh?” 

The pain was immediate and blinding, horribly deep in his gut. If Geralt’s hand hadn’t abruptly left his throat, catching his shoulder instead, Jaskier likely would have hung himself in that iron hold, because the strength left his legs like the ground had dropped away. And this wasn’t bold or heroic, like a song; the hurt was overwhelming, and forced small, ugly sounds from him that he couldn’t stifle. 

Geralt was crouched in front of him, murmuring some brief word or curse that Jaskier missed under the unending sound of the waves, fierce hands suddenly gentler. Time warped and slowed like the drip of honey off a spoon, and the hard planes of the witcher's face softened along with it, pulled his jaw and brows into something almost pleading. It was a child’s expression on a warrior’s face, begging for something lost to return, and Jaskier didn’t understand how to give the wide eyes what they wanted.

But that was only a moment. Then a grimmer cast overtook the man’s features as he stood, distinctly _Geralt_ , about to send something evil to whatever afterlife would receive it. The bard pressed a trembling hand to where the dagger still rode each shallow breath, slowly soaking clinging warmth into his shirt, and prayed to any gods listening to help him stay awake long enough to watch Geralt banish this last monster.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Geralt had been railing at the beast’s walls, clawing at the smoky haze that had him like a puppet on strings. He’d underestimated it… or overestimated his own strength. With every blow aimed at Jaskier’s chest and face, the scent of fear in the room grew, and with it, the creature swelled in strength, bloated like a tick on blood. Geralt had heard Jaskier’s rib crack, seen the panic in the young bard’s eyes, and for one glorious moment, had felt a grim burst of pride as pain lanced across his leg.

But now…

Now, feeling the curves of the knife's hilt digging into his palm, Geralt felt something in his chest breaking even as the creature’s booming laugh echoed through his mind. The bard’s legs buckled and Geralt lowered him as gently as he could to sit against the wall, the crash of waves doing nothing to drown out the small sounds of pain that escaped, choked and strained from the bard’s throat. Jaskier’s eyes met his, and the glaze of pain over them drew the word “No…” soft and sighed on the witcher’s lips, weaker and more helpless than he’d ever felt. Another rush of salty spray scattered through the window and Geralt blinked, gaze lowering to the dagger and the blood already staining the bard’s shirt in a widening patch around the blade. 

_His death will be long… slow and painful as he bleeds…_ The words were whispered, shuddering with glee in his mind as Geralt withdrew his trembling hand from Jaskier’s clenched-tight shoulder, releasing the blade before the creature could carry out one of the many flashed images in his head, each more gruesome than the next, each ending in Jaskier’s blood on his hands. Geralt stumbled upright and turned away as the creature spoke again. _Unless you end it…_ The voice turned steely, pressing into his thoughts with cold malice. _Cut his throat._

“ _No._ ” The word left his lips with a heat he could feel deep inside. The spark caught, the fire lit, blazing hatred through his veins like arcs of lighting in a storm. The creature loomed forward in his thoughts, pressing its influence close.

_Do not defy me, witcher… This body is **mine**_. A pressure like the bodies of a hundred men leaned on his mind but Geralt hardly felt it. He was blazing, a wildfire raging in his chest, guilt and anguish used for potent kindling as fury gave way to determined, deadly wrath. When he spoke again, his voice shook with it, more blind hate in his tone than he’d ever felt.

“ _This_ body will be your _tomb_.” 

With that he slammed shut every door in his mind. Every wall the monster had knocked down in its entry, walls he’d built around feelings, thoughts, memories he never wanted to revisit, all of them sprang up again, and he clamped his teeth down over the taste of sulphur as he felt his knees hit the ground. The monster writhed inside him, struggling in increasing distress as he pressed it down, meeting its every attempt at escape with another wall, another door, another fiery moat around his mind, sealing it in with hate and rage and pain until it howled, throwing itself against him in a desperate attempt to be free. Only when he could feel its fear, feel its panic clawing up his throat and taste that terror on his tongue, only then did he let go, smoke and ash bursting from his mouth, twisting and climbing to the rafters with an inhuman scream. 

In a rush it was gone and before it could form again, before the echoes had faded, Geralt snatched his sword from the ground, took hold of Jaskier with an arm around his chest and bolted for the portal. Howling hate rose up behind them and Geralt could feel its claws at his heels as he pulled Jaskier forward, crossing the threshold and, with a twist of his shoulders and a flash of silver he carved a long line through the sigil in the stone on the other side. The portal closed instantly, dropping them abruptly into the dark isolated silence of the cave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not out of the woods yet... stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt lay for a moment, panting, tiny bones from the heap digging into his back as he stared up into the cavern’s dark interior. He felt wrung out, utterly spent, like he’d switched roles with Roach and carried her for miles without rest. He swallowed the bitter tang of blood and the raw scratch of his throat made him grimace. As the blood rushing in his ears began to fade, Geralt became aware of another heartbeat thumping hard to his left, accompanied by a shaky voice.

“Geralt? Geralt!” A hand wandered clumsily into his shoulder. “Okay, good… good…” A breathless curse followed and Geralt forced himself upright. He blinked as the world reeled, the marred sigil swimming in his vision until he blinked hard again and righted it. His head ached, like the monster had left marks scored in his brain from its desperate escape, but that and the throbbing pain in his leg were things he couldn’t spare a thought for right now. He’d done his best to cushion their fall and ensure Jaskier didn’t land on his front, but the scent of blood was strong in the stale air, and he knew Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see a thing in this dark, could panic, and too much movement would only make things worse. 

“Stay still,” he mumbled, crossing to Jaskier’s left side and pushing his shoulder back down before the bard could try and sit up. Why in the name of all the gods he thought he could do that was beyond Geralt, but he’d already seen today how strong his bard could be. It really shouldn’t surprise him that the younger man would try to get up with a knife in his gut to ensure the witcher was okay. 

“Yeah, not moving sounds… best…” 

Geralt kept a hand on the bard’s shoulder just in case, moving his other to where the knife hilt still protruded from the smaller man’s abdomen. 

“What- What are you-?” Jaskier flinched away, groaning through his teeth as Geralt probed the edges of the wound, trying to gauge its depth. “You really don’t have to… _prod_ like that, you know…” The creature hadn’t stabbed him to the hilt. Geralt had felt it thinking, measuring out distance and strength. The strike had been calculated to cause suffering over a long period of time, but without care, these few inches of steel would be just as deadly as the full blade. Already he could feel the blood, both dry and fresh, that had soaked the bard’s clothing from his waist all the way down to his thigh.

Another sharp sound of pain and Jaskier’s hand closed tightly around Geralt’s wrist. “You know what, it’s fine, it’s fine, just leave it, _please_.” 

“It’s not fine,” Geralt growled back but he moved his hand away, pulling free from the bard’s grip with ease. “The wound is deep. We’ll need to get it wrapped before moving you.” 

“I could have _told_ you it was bloody deep,” was the unsteady reply, Jaskier’s gaze fixed blindly over Geralt’s shoulder in the dark. 

Geralt ignored him. They had very little to work with and Geralt cursed himself for not thinking to bring bandages or other supplies with him. He’d brought potions, but even a drop of those could kill a human, and the only cloth he had for bandages were the clothes they wore and Jaskier’s discarded jacket. It would have to be enough, at least until they could get to Roach and the supplies she carried. 

The jacket’s lining offered enough material for now and it took very little effort to tear the thin fabric into workable strips. Beside him, Jaskier hummed in tuneless exhalations just shy of moans, and Geralt paused, resting a hand on Jaskier’s chest in an attempt at reassurance he wasn’t sure he was successful at. 

“We need to remove the dagger.” 

The shallow inhalations under his palm stopped entirely for long moments, before Jaskier began stammering, “Um, right… That, uh… makes sense. Would it shock you to hear that… that I’m not entirely in favor of this course of action?” 

“Not really.” Geralt tilted his head, peering through the darkness. He could see well enough to make out the general shape of their surroundings, but couldn’t quite make out the bard’s expression or tell just how pale he was. He’d lost blood, but the creature had been right; a knife to the gut left more time to bleed out than one in the lungs or heart. Still, Geralt didn’t want to speculate on the bard’s odds. Entertaining such thoughts only made the possibility of failure seem all the more real, and if he showed any sign of fear, Jaskier would panic. Panic would only cause his heart to beat faster, pumping blood out even quicker than it already was. 

Bandages prepared as well as they could be, Geralt rested one hand lightly against the dagger’s hilt, the other pressing firmly but gently on the bard’s chest. 

“Ready?” 

“I don’t supposed saying ‘no’ would-” In one swift movement, Geralt pulled the blade free and clamped the folded cloth down over the wound. Whatever the bard was about to say dissolved into a cry of pain that rang off the stone around them, hands chasing Geralt’s down to where he held firm pressure against the bard’s side. After a few seconds filled with curses and gulps of air, the spasming hands anchored onto Geralt’s other arm, nails digging into his skin with alarming strength. Geralt knelt there for long minutes, listening to every desperate repetition of his name interspersed with pleas, every scuff of boots as the bard squirmed under his hands. For a minute or two they stayed, locked in place, Jaskier’s ragged breathing slowly settling to sobs so quiet they were nearly inaudible and Geralt trying to think past those broken sounds to form some words of comfort. It took a few minutes more before he trusted himself to speak without a tremor in his voice, and he waited for the frantic pace of Jaskier’s heartbeat to return to a more regular rhythm before saying the only thing his exhausted brain could offer. 

“All right?” 

The bard’s chest hitched with a hum like the start of a chuckle, and he whispered, “... gods, Geralt…” A clammy hand patted the witcher’s arm. “... I’m… m’good...” The thin tone said otherwise, but the warm blood soaking against his palm needed to be taken care of before they could rest. 

“You’ll need to sit up. Come on.” 

With a strong hand at his back, Jaskier was able to get upright, peaking at a dizzy sway before tipping forward. Geralt narrowly avoided a split lip as the younger man’s brow thumped down against his chest instead. Even with his enhanced vision, Geralt couldn’t see just how much the bleeding had slowed, but they couldn’t risk staying here for too long when the bard had already lost so much blood. Jaskier had begun mumbling to himself, unaware or undisturbed when Geralt shifted him to lean against one broad shoulder as he finished tying the bandage around his waist.

“That was… th’stuff of real ballads, there... You were incredible. Just…” The bard’s hand lifted to gesture along with the quiet “woosh”ing sound that Geralt assumed was meant to illustrate the creature’s departure. “... and it… literally _fleeing_ …” 

“Hmm,” Geralt offered, prompting the bard to continue as he probed the abused ribs. A sharp intake of breath and moan of pain followed his touch, and Geralt determined at least one cracked rib. 

“Gonna leave this bit out though… ” Geralt let the bard mumble into his shoulder while he eyed the mountain of bone they’d have to climb. It was a long way, but Roach’s saddlebags held more supplies, clean bandages, even the means to stitch the wound if he had to, though infection could easily be sealed in that way, and he’d much rather get Jaskier to a trained healer than fumble through on his own. Most of his experience with wounds came from his own, easily treated with potions or a few days’ rest. Jaskier was different… and possibly delirious, he thought, as the bard continued.

“... princess was better story… hair loose in the sea winds, tortured by loneliness, imprisoned by… What was that thing, anyway?”

“Borch called it The Shadow. Something born long before my time.” His route mapped out visually, Geralt turned to look down at Jaskier’s head. “Can you stand?” A vague movement against his shoulder and the bard’s mumbled, “Yeah” were less than convincing, especially when they were not followed by any attempt to rise. With a sigh, Geralt lifted him to his feet, slinging the bard’s right arm over his shoulders so his free hand could keep pressure on the wound, using the remains of the ruined jacket as extra padding between his hand and Jaskier’s side. 

The climb was slow and arduous. The shifting skeletons underfoot had too much give, breaking easily under their weight, crumbling and sliding away. Each step slid them back a few inches as the dead settled their tangled limbs more snugly together, and Geralt had to take most of Jaskier’s weight, the younger man unable to keep his footing. Apart from a strained comment early on of, “What is that _smell_? Should’ve gone th’way I came… always the back alleys with you…” they made their way in relative silence. Geralt paused when they finally crossed from broken bones to solid stone, and readjusted his grip before pressing on, squeezing them both uncomfortably through the narrow passageway. 

Then they were out in the gloriously fresh air, wind whipping around them as it chased the darkening clouds forward. It wasn’t raining yet, but it would soon, and it looked like a furious storm was brewing in the heavens. Grim determination overrode his own aching body’s

complaints and Geralt started them down the steep incline. Roach was right where he’d left her, tossing her head in greeting as the witcher lowered Jaskier gently to sit against a tree. 

In the grey light, Jaskier’s pallor was clearly noticeable against the bruises blossoming on his face. The cause of that ashen complexion was even more apparent now they were out of the cave’s lightless interior. Blood - coating his hands, soaking his shirt, dried and cracking at his lips. The sight made Geralt pause, straightening and stepping back as his head spun with the coppery scent once again, bitter and more urgent than the stench of death that had surrounded them in the cave. Swallowing down his shock and concern at the state of his friend, Geralt turned to rummage in the saddlebags, trading the damaged jacket for a wad of clean bandages. 

“What made you come looking for me?” Jaskier’s faint words made him freeze, spoken as if the thought had only just occurred to him. The witcher’s thoughts ground to a halt, utterly blank. The simplest answer would be Borch, but something didn’t feel right about it. Guilt was closer, but still not the whole truth. 

Bandages in hand, he returned to crouch by the bard, adding another layer of cloth tightly over the wound and trying not to think about how much blood had already soaked through. Jaskier was well into the daze of shock now, reacting seconds later than he ought to Geralt’s nudging his arms out of the way, but still squinted at him, continuing fuzzily, “I figured you’d be miles away by now, off… monster-hunting or what have you.” 

There was no accusation or anger in his tone, only puzzlement, and the witcher found he still didn’t have an adequate answer. He gave a noncommittal “Hmm,” wrapping Jaskier’s cut hand with quick efficiency. That done, he passed Jaskier a waterskin and went to get Roach, pulling his cloak from one of her saddlebags. They would have to ride, slowly at first until they could get on even terrain, then as fast as her hooves could carry them if they wanted to stay ahead of the storm on their way to town. Jaskier was quiet, managing a few sips of water without comment, and the silence was deeply unnerving, as was the way the bard’s head hung, his focus turned inward as adrenaline wore off and the pain caught up to him. A heartbeat four times faster than his own when at rest was pumping far too much blood from that wound, and Geralt’s heart clenched at the thought that Caingorn was still miles away. They had to move, ride through the night if that’s what it took. After all they’d been through, Geralt refused to let the possibility of Jaskier’s death become a reality. 

Returning to the bard’s side, he took the water skin and slung his cloak around the slim shoulders. He didn’t like the way the trembling in Jaskier’ hands had begun to spread through the rest of his body. 

“We need to hurry. There’s a healer in Caingorn.” Geralt took him by the arm and helped him up, steadying him as the bard swayed dizzily. Jaskier only offered a mute nod and Geralt clenched his teeth against the urge to demand a verbal answer. Jaskier needed to save his strength. Forcing him to speak just to calm the witcher’s nerves would be ridiculous and stupid. It took some effort to get him up on Roach’s back, Geralt doing most of the work and Jaskier offering only a breathy groan at the movement. The witcher mounted quickly behind him, before the precarious swaying could turn into a tumble. Wrapping one arm around his friend’s waist, palm pressed firmly to the wound, Geralt took the reins in the free hand and nudged Roach on. 

The going was painfully slow, every step picked out over rocks and across slopes, and each minute measured out in the shallow breaths under his arm and the rapid-fire pace of the bard’s heart. Soon the dark head was nodding with each of Roach’s careful steps, shivering hand sliding off Geralt’s and he bumped the bard’s arm with his elbow, keeping the reins in a firm hold.

“Stay awake,” he murmured, adding as an afterthought, “You’ll be all right.” He frowned, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. Jaskier’s head bobbed again, a soft “hmm” his only response. A lie, perhaps, but he wanted it to be true, willed it to be so, and if Destiny dared interfere and wedge yet another misfortune into his life, he’d hunt it down and make it pay. Whether that made sense or not. His mind was still foggy with exhaustion, but it was nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure. 

A rush of wind came up behind them as Roach finally crossed from foothills to a narrow but flatter path. Caingorn was still miles off, but now they could really move. Geralt tucked the bard’s slimmer frame close against him, prepared to brace him when Roach’s pace increased. He could feel fresh blood soaking through the bandages, dried and cracking at the edges of his fingers and palm. The bleeding had slowed significantly, but still pressed warm and wet against his hand and the storm was right on their heels, thunder rumbling ominously and black clouds reaching out like smoky claws across the sky. The first drops of rain began to fall and Geralt released the reins momentarily to raise the cloak’s hood over Jaskier’s head. 

This seemed to rouse the other man, whose lowered head lifted, shifting the bard back heavily against Geralt’s shoulder. His voice had been whittled thin as a twig, hardly more than a whisper as he said, “W’stopping?”

“Soon. Caingorn’s close.” A pause, as Roach found her way between boulders to the flat surface of the road, and Jaskier’s hand nudged his for just a moment, cold fingers trembling against the fresh wetness soaking his shirt.

“I’m sorry about Yennefer,” Jaskier whispered, voice threaded between hoofbeats and another roll of thunder, closer now. Geralt looked down at him with a frown. “That she left, I mean. And I wanted to say… just in case… thanks for letting me tell your story. Versions of it, anyway. M’sorry you had to come… come and get involved again, but… I’ll steer clear.” 

Geralt sat in muted shock, things that should have been said long ago getting tangled in the guilt and shame that had grown around his heart like brambles. The first words that made it to his tongue were halted behind his clenched teeth. Anger wouldn’t help, wasn’t right, wasn’t… wasn’t fair. Breathing a sigh tight with fear, Geralt set his jaw more firmly. Roach knew immediately, whether from her rider’s change in posture or the urgency thrumming just beneath his skin, she knew, and as soon as he prompted her, she broke into a gallop like she could outrun fate itself. Geralt held his bard tightly, hunching his shoulders as the rain increased, tapping icy fingers down his spine as he strained to hear over the rush of wind and water, listening to those faint thudding beats that told him he hadn’t failed, hadn’t lost him, not yet. 

  
  


************

  
  


Geralt’s cloak settled over Jaskier’s shoulders, tugged close together in front, and the cutting wind dropped away immediately, except where it blustered icily against the damp streaks on his face. But it was enough, it was better, and the thick cloth was something for his fumbling hands to hold onto. He’d told himself, somewhere during the blind agony of Geralt leaning into his wound in the dark of the cave, had promised himself that it would feel better soon, that with the dagger gone and Geralt’s know-how, he’d be all right soon. Instead, the pain had swelled and begun to eat him from the inside out, leaving him unable to do much beyond cling to Geralt’s shoulder as the witcher pulled them both up the unstable slope.

White hair swayed in his vision again as the low rumble of Geralt’s voice pulled him from his haze, but he missed the actual words. A strong hand levered him up onto his feet, gripping his arm tight as gravel skidded under his boots and the sky tilted like grey marble above. Roach’s warm side grounded him while the world lurched nauseatingly, but Geralt remained insistent, issuing directions that Jaskier tried to obey: Lift your foot. Hold onto the saddlehorn. He twined his fingers into Roach’s nut-brown mane when Geralt’s hands dropped to his waist and pushed him up into the saddle, not caring if the other man heard when the effort pushed a groan from his throat. He’d heard worse from Jaskier in the past hour anyway, and he was starting to wonder if the extra tension in the witcher’s brusque movements meant he ought to be worried also.

Then Geralt swung up behind him, solid at his back, anchoring him close with an arm tight around Jaskier’s waist, hand clamped against the bandages once more. The pressure was almost the last assault his composure could handle, but he held onto the witcher’s wrist and reminded himself he trusted Geralt. Jaskier had glimpsed the wet, dark stain reaching past the hip of his trousers as he sat under the tree, seen the bright red blossom already pressing through the bandages, and shut his eyes now, trying to ignore the quiver of fear in his chest. Each of Roach’s delicate steps reverberated up through her shoulders and into his body, a steady cadence of misery. 

“Stay awake,” murmured the familiar voice, only inches from his ear, and Jaskier pulled in a breath that renewed all the persistent agony he’d managed to avoid for a few minutes. The hills had all changed around them while his eyes were shut, and the cloudy sky now held an angry flush like metal heated by a smith. “You’ll be all right,” Geralt said quietly, and he sounded sure. But Geralt had told him to do something - stay awake - and he nodded, voice trapped somewhere down in his chest, sinking lower like the sun. 

He tried to stay awake, but time slid out of his hands again, slow as a lover’s kiss as he counted each hollow thud of hooves on the earth, then quick as a spark as he opened his eyes to find the world dark again, a deep rumble overhead echoing the displeased growl against Jaskier’s back. A cold drop stung his forehead, then his cheek, and a careful hand tugged the cloak’s hood over his head. His own hands felt heavy, his head so light that only the heavy wool hood seemed to keep him from drifting away for good.

Roach’s gait changed, a new eagerness in the jarring steps, and he managed, “W’stopping?”

“Soon. Caingorn’s close.” 

Close. Not there yet, still riding, maybe for hours. The blazing hurt below his ribs was sticky against his fingertips, fresh and frightening. 

“I’m sorry about Yennefer,” he heard himself say, a thought that had been humming through his mind, pushed from his dry lips by the slick blood under his hand. “That she left, I mean. And I wanted to say… just in case…” Because he couldn’t stop shaking, he hadn’t stopped bleeding, and the pain was dragging his eyes shut again. “... thanks for letting me tell your story. Versions of it, anyway. M’sorry you had to come… come and get involved again, but… I’ll steer clear.” 

One way or another, he would be off the White Wolf’s hands in a few hours. Apparently Lady Destiny had looked kindly upon Geralt for once in his long, unhappy life, and had decided to grant the witcher a blessing, and all Jaskier could do was wait and see whether the good lady thought a simple bard deserved a few more years. 

************

It was dark by the time they arrived at Caingorn, the storm blotting out any moonlight, and the rain still fell in deafening massive drops that had long since soaked them both through. With torchlight impossible in the deluge, Geralt had to rely on lightning to navigate the town streets, each strike ripping open wounds in the clouds that bled light in a blinding flash, revealing a glimpse of looming buildings and reflecting off gathering puddles before dropping abruptly into darkness once more.

Geralt had dismounted almost before Roach had come to a full stop outside the inn, snorting and dancing a few steps to the side as the sudden change in pace startled her. Geralt didn’t stop to tie her, just took Jaskier in his arms without a thought to the ache in his own limbs. Jaskier was pale and silent, unconscious as he had been for the last few frantic miles. His pulse was thready and weak and Geralt didn’t have time to mind the sensitivities of common folk. He kicked the door in, nearly off its hinges, with a bang that drew the attention of every last one of the nearly twenty patrons seated at the bar and tables. 

“I need a healer!” he shouted, ignoring the curses and wide-eyed stares in favor of moving swiftly to the nearest table. Drunkards and barmaids scrambled to save their plates and pints before Geralt could sweep them aside, and he laid Jaskier carefully on the sturdy oaken surface. Keeping one hand over the wound, Geralt looked up to find everyone frozen, staring in varying degrees of shock and suspicion. Fury overrode fear and Geralt roared, “Your healer! _Now!_ ” sending the crowd a stumbling step back. Several men darted out the front door, one offering a quick bow and mumbled assurance before disappearing into the storm. 

It took only a few minutes for the men to return, but it felt ages, with nothing to do but keep pressure on the bandages as rainwater dripped from the table’s edge to pool at his boots. The door finally swung open again, the same men accompanied by another. The druid was aged, white hair and beard a lighter shade than Geralt’s pale silver, and judging by the sour expression on the man’s face, he wasn’t too happy being hauled out in the storm. He stalked forward, shaking rain from his simple robes, followed by a young lad hefting a bag almost as big as he was. The druid stopped opposite the witcher, scowling at him before taking a brief glance at his patient. 

“I suppose this lad has you to blame for his misfortune?” The old man’s tone was accusatory and aloof, everything Geralt hated about mages and aldermen. 

“Can you help him?” he asked through clenched teeth, impatience and the aching fear that he hadn’t been fast enough, that it was too late, clutching at his chest as the druid scoffed and waved him away.

“Get your bloody paws off him and we’ll see, witcher.” 

Geralt stepped back, recognizing the tone as one of derision and suspicion. Fists clenched at his sides, he stood there as the man peeled away the layers of bandages to reveal the bloody, bruising flesh beneath and the ugly red line of the wound, still oozing against his blunt fingers. Jaskier flinched under his hand, a grimace twisting his features even in unconsciousness, and Geralt felt something in him snap.

“ _Don’t_ hurt him!” he barked, causing several villagers to jump in surprise. The words were a command, almost a threat, yet the druid glared at him like he was a schoolboy speaking out of turn. 

“I am not in the habit of causing pain without purpose, witcher.” The man snapped his fingers and the young lad lay his bag on the bench beside him, holding it open as the gnarled fingers rifled through its contents with practiced speed, pulling out various bottles and herbs as well as fresh bandages. One of the gathered folk behind the old druid stepped forward hesitantly.

“Falkner… can’t you take him to your-” The old man didn’t even look up from arranging his supplies, cutting the man off with a stern tone.

“Do you want to be the one to carry his corpse through this storm, Harper?” 

To his credit, Harper knew when he was beat. He stepped back to the bar for another drink as Falkner set to work cleaning the wound. 

“It’s a stab wound,” Geralt offered.

“I can see that,” came the terse reply and Geralt continued, anger turning his words to a sharp bite.

“He’s also got a cut to his hand and a broken rib if you cared to listen.” 

“Aye. Just as you’ve got a cut on your arm and a sizable slice to your leg, but I trust you can handle those yourself?” One steel grey eyebrow rose as the brown eyes cut across to meet Geralt’s glower. Falkner went back to his work and Geralt felt suddenly very awkward. The urgency of their arrival hadn’t left him like it did with the final blow of a fight. It still thrummed in him, urging him to do _something,_ and he found himself fidgeting amid the hushed murmurs of villagers and the quiet instructions passed between the druid and his boy. Geralt struggled for a moment against the urge to move closer, to stand protectively over the bard while the healer worked, but he knew he’d only be in the way. Falkner had no reason to hurt Jaskier; his chosen profession was in direct opposition to that, in fact. It wouldn’t do any good to have Geralt questioning his every move and suspecting him as much, if not more, than the druid did the witcher.

In fact, considering he’d come bursting in covered in blood and soaked to the bone, barking orders that carried thinly-veiled threats behind them, he wasn’t surprised that the village had reacted with startled suspicion. _Since when does a witcher take anyone on a hunt, let alone one as scrawny as him? He probably got the poor boy gored by some terrible beast. Or stabbed him himself, took his money and now he wants to play hero._ The speculations voiced in the men’s hushed tones ranged as far as Jaskier’s more wild adaptations, and before long Geralt had to excuse himself with a grunted, “Need to see to the horse,” that the druid didn’t grace with a response.

Roach was right where he’d left her, breathing hard into the pouring rain, flanks shivering with exertion and cold. He took her gently by the reins and led her to the inn’s stables, murmuring his thanks to her as he made sure she was warm and dry and had plenty of food and water. As he worked, his mind spun with a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings he struggled to categorize. Guilt and self-loathing were common enough themes that he figured his heart had finally done away with the lie that his words on the mountaintop had been in any way right or truthful. 

Fear was another that rose up often. And if he admitted it to himself, he thought with a sigh, hand resting on Roach’s shoulder where dried blood stained her coat a darker brown, the greatest and most gut-wrenching fear in his heart was that after all they’d gone through, after fighting so hard for so long, Jaskier would die… and whether it was because of the words that had driven the bard away, or Geralt’s stupid belief that he could fight off the creature by letting it in, it would be Geralt’s fault if his friend died tonight. He knew that would eat away at him far worse than even Renfri’s death. Washing those stains from Roach’s coat and his own hands did little to calm his fears.

He also knew deep down that if Jaskier lived, he deserved a proper apology, or at least some explanation that those words were regretted, that anything Geralt did that put the bard in danger would be deeply regretted and added to the list of things Geralt could never forgive himself for. Perhaps in time, Jaskier could forgive Geralt for the cruel words that drove him to this waking nightmare of death and darkness. Finished caring for Roach, Geralt slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and gave her a gentle pat on the neck as he left. 

He entered the inn largely unnoticed, as the room’s attention remained on the druid bent over his patient. Geralt slipped upstairs and deposited their things in an empty room. The coin he’d gotten from their last hunt would be enough to afford the room for a few nights, if the healer wasn’t too demanding for his services. He returned to the dining area and hung back in the shadows until Falkner straightened, stretching the kinks from his back before searching the room until his eyes landed on Geralt. He beckoned the witcher forward with one knobbly finger and Geralt obliged, the crowd parting in front of him as if he were made of burning metal. 

“He’ll need rest. A week’s worth, at least. Put this in his tea and make sure he has plenty of water.” He pressed a couple small vials into Geralt’s hand, along with a folded pile of clean bandages. “And clean out that wound and rebandage it nightly to avoid infection.” 

“And he’ll live?” The question left his lips before Geralt could realize he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. The druid looked at him, scrutinizing his face for an uncomfortable span of seconds before he answered, matter-of-factly, “He may. That all depends on you.”

“Me?” Geralt frowned.

“Well, you don’t see him getting up to fix his own supper, do you?” Falkner hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Jaskier’s motionless form. “Take good care of that lad and he’s got a chance. If you can’t manage it, then I can take him to-” 

“I can.” His words allowed for no argument, and Falkner regarded him curiously before nodding and gathering up his things. Geralt wasted no time lifting Jaskier, who hung limp in his arms, breathing eased by whatever healing magic the druid had been able to provide. He carried Jaskier up the stairs and to the room. It took some work to get the bard out of his sopping clothes, but Geralt managed, finally using a knife to cut the bloodstained shirt rather than try to manhandle the bard out of it. He redressed Jaskier in some of his own warm dry clothes, the wide shirt hanging on the younger man’s shoulders and making him look even more sickly than he already did. Geralt sat heavily in a chair by the bed, damp strands of silver hanging in front of his eyes as he just breathed, letting Jaskier’s slow, regular breaths calm the remnants of fear still clinging like cobwebs to his heart. 

They weren’t out of trouble yet. Falkner and his boy had left with a good deal more coin than Geralt had expected, probably due to the expensive ingredients involved in the healing draught contained in the vials lining the small table to his right. They were now down to enough money for one night, maybe two…. 

But there were other ways of ensuring them a room. 

Mind made up, Geralt downed one of his own healing potions, pouring another over the gash in his leg to prevent any infection in his own wound before he turned the chair to face the door, settling in it with his steel sword close at hand. 


	5. Chapter 5

Wherever Geralt had finally taken him, it had turned out to be a place of utter misery, and Jaskier wanted very much to leave. He’d tried to leave, the next time he’d broken the surface of the dark drowsy lake he kept slipping into, tried to get up and make himself scarce, but simply turning his head tipped him right back into the water, and down he went. 

Roach had stopped. That was one blessed thing, because he hurt enough without the added percussion of her hoofbeats, however slow and delicate she may have thought she was being. He’d been stabbed, for pity’s sake, and all he wanted to do was lie here in the dark and quiet until everything stopped being quite so painful. 

The lake water was bitter, like someone had tried to brew tea and failed miserably, and the taste lingered on the back of his tongue, sending his stomach rolling. Cool water touched his lips again, dark like everything else, and poured darkness into him, and Jaskier suddenly remembered vomiting up blackness like it would never end, filling a whole room with black miasma that laughed like the world was crumbling around them. 

Something pulled at him, reached beneath his shoulders, and the flare of pain in his side stifled his plea to leave him alone, let him sleep. Instead he leaned forward with a groan onto something solid that held him upright; he breathed in the smell of horse and sweat and safety, but couldn’t form the words to beg them to leave off pawing at his side, stoking the pain to a nauseating blaze. 

He dragged his eyes open and found his brow was nestled in the crook of someone’s neck, a strong arm holding him close. He caught a flicker of pale hair gilded by candlelight, almost touching his face. When the next stab of pain forced a grunt from his aching throat, a familiar voice rumbled under Jaskier’s head, though he couldn’t make out the words. He remembered a dagger, shut his eyes, and trembled until the water rose to take him under again. 

Dull pounding eventually pulled him to the surface again, a steady pain in his stomach, behind his eyes, and buried in the base of his skull. He couldn’t summon the energy to drag the blanket up over his slowly fragmenting head, his usual method of coping with a murderous hangover, and didn’t dare open his eyes to the sunlight lying warm across the bed, across his hand. But the pounding in his ears didn’t match the throb in his head, and suddenly a voice joined the din, hollow like the thuds coming from across the room. A dangerous pitch, angry tone, and Jaskier dimly wondered whose bed he’d wound up in after whatever had happened last night, and if he’d managed to overstay his welcome once again. 

The door creaked under yet another battering, doubling the intensity of his headache, and he let a hum of discomfort escape him that was absolutely _not_ a whimper. A chair rasped suddenly against the floor close by, followed by footsteps stalking to the door. The angry voice cut off as soon as the door opened, and blessed silence fell as the voices resumed, traveling off and away out of earshot. But sleep refused to accept him back, and as more voices argued somewhere below him, he drifted in growing misery and confusion, unable to remember what sequence of events led to him lying alone in what sounded like an inn, too ill to move.

“Jaskier?” Or perhaps not alone, he thought with relief. Familiar growling voice, familiar careful hand on his shoulder, and he blinked up at Geralt’s grave face as memory belatedly fell into place. No long night of drinking and debauchery, just a messy, nasty tangle with a monster. “Here.” A cup appeared under his nose, an arm under his shoulders, and he found himself so thirsty he didn’t care that the tea was overpoweringly herbal, or that Geralt didn’t let him pretend he had the strength to hold the mug himself. 

A cup of water appeared next, a few sips clearing away the bitter taste as the world tilted back and forth a little, pulling him down to the pillow once more. Oh, right… not badly-made tea, a draught for healing or sleeping or some such. Got stabbed. Right. Something in the witcher’s thoughtful expression niggled at him, though, as the other man draped another blanket over him and sat back down in the chair. 

The room was smaller than others they’d stayed in, holding little more than the bed and chair, both facing the door in the opposite wall. Behind Geralt’s chosen post, beneath the window, a low table supported a cluttered collection of glass vials, a pitcher, and cloths. The witcher’s broad shoulders held a weary curve half-hidden by unkempt white hair, and his sword lay across his knees, hands resting lightly on the weapon’s hilt and blade. The hard angle of his jaw revealed nothing of the man’s mood to Jaskier’s blurring vision. 

Geralt sitting here, staying with him… this made no sense. He’d made his intent more than clear on the cliffside - months ago, it felt like. Somehow Geralt had learned about the monster in the cave, and had come to seal it in, and then had brought Jaskier to the inn, discharging his duty to see the unfortunate victim of the monster to safety. He should be miles down the road by now, back to the solitary Path he craved so much, and Jaskier had already promised to leave him be. And yet here they both were, sunset pouring like dying fire through the slit in the curtain, spilling onto the blanket as Jaskier struggled against the soporific effect of the draught, clinging to this little knot that needed to be undone.

Did Geralt feel responsible for his being wounded? While it had been done by his hand, it had only been in the strictest sense of the phrase. Jaskier remembered how impossible stealing control back from that demon had been. Guilt, maybe - a potent brew that always went straight to Geralt’s head. But he could have summoned a healer, left Jaskier in their hands. Why the vigil? 

A thought made his heart stutter, his throat suddenly dry. The blankets, cold as he was, abruptly felt suffocating, and he pushed them away with shaking hands as he said, “Geralt?” Well, more croaked than said, but it did the trick; the silver head turned quickly, and was it a good thing or bad that the witcher’s stern face seemed to soften as he met Jaskier’s eyes? Draughts always did seem to bring out his maudlin side, as did being ill, but the question was already in his throat and on his tongue, and he couldn’t help himself. “Am… am I dying?” 

He wasn’t sure what to make of the short huff, the quirk of the witcher’s lips that betrayed his amusement, but then Geralt was leaning over, tugging the blankets back up to his chin one-handed, and rumbled, “Sleep, bard. We’re through the worst of it now.” 

Geralt could be tactless, gruff, and aloof (often all three simultaneously), but he wasn’t cruel, so Jaskier chose to take his words as they were offered, settling back against his pillow as the pleasant warmth and exhaustion had their way with him. The mystery of the witcher’s continued presence would hold until he could keep his eyes open for more than five minutes at a stretch. 

That particular feat took longer than Jaskier expected. He woke to daylight and a hunger so fierce it nearly took his appetite away, contradictory as that was, but accomplished nothing more impressive than slowly sitting up and tucking into a little bread and cheese. The cuffs of his sleeves hung annoyingly past his wrists, and when he pushed them back to eat, he belatedly recognized the dark material as Geralt’s spare shirt. His heart warmed immediately, a silly and surprising flush, because Geralt wasn’t one for overt shows of… well, anything, apart from indifference or violence, generally. Jaskier had learned to watch for the bits of light that shone through the cracks in the stone, and wordlessly ensuring Jaskier’s comfort at the expense of his own was certainly one of those little glints.

Except it wasn’t. Because Geralt had said outright he didn’t want Jaskier around, made it clear he wouldn’t miss his company. He blamed Jaskier for all his miseries, and seemed to think combing this burr out of his mane would magically turn his life to sunshine and song. And yet Geralt didn’t leave now, almost unnervingly solicitous in his own monosyllabic and unreadable way. Apart from wordless offers of water and asking if Jaskier was hungry, he seemed to be simply meditating in tandem with Jaskier’s near-constant naps. The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion: he woke, ate and drank whatever Geralt handed him, and then sank into sleep again, rather humiliatingly like an infant. 

By the afternoon, the strange situation had captured the whole of Jaskier’s (admittedly, currently limited) attention. They had apparently run out of whatever draught Geralt had been giving him, the little vials all lying empty on the side table, and while Jaskier felt the absence of its numbing properties rather dearly, the pain was nothing like that midnight gallop or the hellish minutes after that demon had used his own dagger to stab him. 

All of which left Jaskier sitting half-asleep against the headboard, unable to quite doze off, awake enough to hum agreement when Geralt stood and mumbled something about supper. Possibly the most inconvenient thing about this wound, apart from the almost dying, was that talking was surprisingly painful unless he were very, very careful about his breathing and not gesturing too grandly. If this persisted much longer, he’d run the risk of losing his voice entirely, leaving him to the growls, glares, and “hmm”s of the witcher’s preferred communication. The thought made him smirk a little, and he opened his eyes to watch said witcher cross the room, toying with the question of how to learn Geralt’s plans once Jaskier was no longer bedridden. Something had changed in the White Wolf since that outburst on the cliff and their encounter with the demon, but he didn’t know what, which made a safe method of approaching the topic equally unclear.

Geralt turned around in the doorway, and for a moment Jaskier felt caught in the act somehow, and wondered if witchers could also read minds. But Geralt just calmly shut the door, and the unmistakable sheen of magic briefly lined the doorframe in vivid blue, clearing the lingering sleep from his eyes at once. Geralt’s steps retreated down the stairs, leaving Jaskier staring at the door that now looked entirely normal and non-enchanted. Years ago, he’d seen Geralt cast this spell hastily behind them as they sprinted from a troll’s cave (there was supposed to be one - there were four, and Geralt had not been a happy witcher). He’d only seen the flash of blue and heard the angry roaring, too busy keeping up with the witcher to look back again when the trolls reached the cave mouth behind them, but he’d gotten the impression this spell was definitely, unquestionably a barrier, and an effective one. 

The angry door-hammering of the past day or two suddenly came back to him in fresh context… and said context was fairly alarming. Geralt hadn’t often spent the nights sitting with a naked blade on his lap in other inns, and had certainly never warded the doors. He mulled this information over until steps on the stairs roused him. Too many feet, though, and they stopped outside the door in a jumble of hasty whispers. Not good, especially with Geralt’s swords and pack in plain view, and Jaskier in no shape to do more than lightly scold would-be thieves. With precious few options, Jaskier snatched up an empty vial and hastily slid flat in the bed, biting his tongue against the vicious twinge in his side. If nothing else, he could smash the little jar against an attacker’s head, or chuck it hard enough that Geralt would hear the ruckus and charge back up here. Through lowered eyelashes, feigning sleep, he watched the door and listened as the two men resumed their hushed argument.

One voice was hissing something about, “... haven’t got time for your bloody excuses!” That voice was an older man’s, heavy with anger and authority. “You’ll go in there and take all you can carry, else you’ll be missing a roof and a job come sundown!” 

“But what if he comes back?” whined the second voice, much younger and audibly unwilling to be part of this endeavor.

“He’s not the one who’ll be flaying your hide, boy. Out of my way, you superstitious litt-”

The doorway lit up blue as a spring sky, a vibration shaking the air like the gods had sent lightning to punish the thieves, and the door slammed open, rebounding off the wall. For one long moment, Jaskier saw a young lad staring slack-jawed at the bearded man now slumped against the wall across from the door. The boy stared for only a heartbeat, though, then hared off down the stairs, leaving Jaskier to stare similarly, propped on an elbow, until a familiar step approached. 

The tall witcher paused, arms full, to study the stout body crumpled in the hall. He nudged him with a boot, then entered the room, the doorway shimmering softly behind him as he approached with a loaf of bread, a haunch of something savory, a pitcher, a full bowl, and Jaskier couldn’t tell what all. The witcher kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot, glancing calmly up at Jaskier as the bard stammered, pointing at the now-shut door with the hand still holding the vial.

“Geralt! What was… Did you just… Is that man _dead_?”

Geralt simply began unloading what looked suspiciously like the spoils of a raid, eyebrows lilting to the sky in amusement.

“Dead to the world, for a few hours at least.” Geralt set the jug on the side table, frowned down at Jaskier, then wordlessly traded the vial in his hand for a bowl of steaming stew. A quick look at the bowl promised potatoes, some decent bits of meat, and other vegetables, and reminded the bard he was ravenous. So he ate, watching Geralt arrange his haphazard supplies on the side table, while a man who was quite possibly their landlord lay unconscious on the other side of the door, until his curiosity finally outweighed his appetite.

“So…” he ventured, resting his nearly-empty bowl on his lap to ease his palm against the ache under his bandages. “Not that I’m ungrateful for this delicious stew, mind you... but would you be at all offended if I were to ask exactly how many laws we’re currently breaking, and why you’ve magically barricaded us into the room?”

Having finished his own meal of bread and sliced meats, Geralt passed him a cup of water before sitting back and taking a swig from his own mug. 

“We’re a little low on coin,” was the only answer he offered. 

Several seconds passed before Jaskier realized he was still staring dumbly at the other man, waiting on an explanation which he ought to know by now wasn’t going to emerge without some verbal prodding. Remain calm, he told himself. It may not be as bad as looks. First things first. 

“How long have we been here?” 

“Four days.” 

Before Jaskier could fully absorb that fact, and the realization that he could only remember one-and-a-half of those days with any real clarity, Geralt continued, “Not including the night we arrived, which is the only one he’s pleased with.” The witcher jerked his head at the closed door and the body presumably still lying behind it, and then calmly took another drink.

“Why that one?” he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

“He was paid for that one.” 

Jaskier hated when he was right about these things. He would have asked where on this blessed earth the rest of their money from the last contract went, but another glance at the empty vials littering the small table closed his mouth for him, tendrils of shame spoiling his appetite. A healer’s services in a town this size wouldn’t be cheap, not for a wound as serious as Jaskier’s had apparently been. He gusted out a sigh, regretting it as his side twinged vengefully, and said, “Gods, Geralt…. You should have just left me with the healer and moved on. I’d have been fine, and you wouldn’t be sitting here in debt with half the town ready to lynch you. You’ll have undone all my painstaking efforts to improve your public image.” 

The attempt at humor sounded flat and listless in the quiet room, and the silence that fell between them was thick as the stew congealing in the bottom of Jaskier’s bowl. It felt strange and uncomfortable, like the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, and he didn’t have the energy or wherewithal right now to work out why Geralt chose to stick around like this. If Geralt had changed his mind, well, then why? Did he mean what he’d said or not? People didn’t bellow things into other people’s faces if they didn’t mean at least a piece of what they were bellowing, in Jaskier’s experience. As miserly as Geralt was his words as a rule, that sort of outburst had to come from somewhere. But if he’d run out of patience after merely tolerating Jaskier for years, then why was he pouring Jaskier a fresh cup of water before settling down to repair a loose strap on his armor? 

This was making Jaskier’s head pound, sapping what little energy he had to work with. Either way, they were in a fix, and clearly the witcher’s social graces weren’t going to extract them from it. However, if there was one thing Jaskier prided himself on, it was his ability to change the mood of his audience; that was the whole magic behind a bard’s presence, why people looked up from the troubles swimming in their ale to clap and sing along to his jigs and ballads. With a little careful effort, he felt fairly confident he could keep the pair of them out of prison, which was definitely the preferred outcome here.

First, he needed his notebook, though, with all his works-in-progress and snatches of lyrics, and that had been in... the scarlet jacket he hadn’t seen since tossing it through the portal. 

“Uh, Geralt, you don’t happen to have my notebook tucked away in one of those bags there, do you? Or a bit of paper, just something to-” He looked over, only to see Geralt step over with the little book already in hand. “Oh. Um, thank you.” Unreadable mask in place, the silver-haired witcher only nodded, before returning to his work. 

************************************************************

Geralt tried to lose himself in the rote motions of the repair and cleaning of his supplies but his mind buzzed on and on, taking Jaskier’s words and turning them over and over until he felt dizzy and still had gained no greater understanding from his efforts. Why _hadn’t_ he left the bard with Falkner? The old man had been about to offer, Geralt was sure of it, when his own rough voice had cut him off. It would have been the smart thing to do, probably, with their funds so low, and with Jaskier’s condition he might even have fared better at the old healer’s house than under the witcher’s somewhat less-practiced care. 

But then, Geralt pondered, replenishing the ward and going to check on Roach in the stables, a healer’s home usually only had room enough for his patients. If Geralt had left Jaskier there, then his parting image of the bard would have been that still chest, covered in blood, and those heartbeats growing weaker and weaker with every desperate mile they’d crossed. He knew he never could have left Jaskier in that condition, and he found, to his surprise, there was a tinge of hurt knotted in his chest at the thought that Jaskier may have preferred it that way. Waking in a haze of pain was disorienting enough without the first face you see being the one who’d put the hole in your side in the first place. Jaskier wasn’t the sort to hold that against him, not when the monster had so clearly been in control, but something was unsteady between them… something that needed mending.

With Roach settled for the night, he returned to the inn, slipping through the crowd to the stairs only to be stopped by a large hand on his shoulder. The innkeeper’s sausage finger was in his face, the stink of ale on his words.

“Not so fast, witcher. Now the lads and I,” the man jerked his head to indicate three equally ale-scented men who blocked Geralt’s path back into the main room, “have a right to know what you’re doin’ up there with that poor boy!”

“Witcher magic, I reckon,” mumbled the man to Geralt’s left.

“Some sort of ritual?” another demanded, “He’s already dead, ain’t he? An’ you’re jus’ usin’ what’s left of ‘im to-” 

“You’re right.” Geralt’s words stopped them dead in their tracks, and as their looks of shock slowly grew to almost-comical horror, he continued smoothly, “I’ve been trying to turn him into a bruxa. It’s a slow process and a messy one, but I think it’s coming along quite well.” Geralt took a moment to enjoy their expressions before the innkeeper managed to stammer out, “Y-You’re not s-serious….?” Geralt inclined his head in agreement and the portly man’s demeanor turned sour once more. Before he could sputter any of the curses building in those reddened cheeks, Geralt clapped him on the shoulder and turned to the stairs.

“He’s nearly well enough to travel. We’ll be out of your hair soon.” 

The innkeeper’s heavy footsteps followed him up the stairs but Geralt didn’t falter, striding through the ward easily and feeling just a twinge of disappointment that his passing through it would leave a shimmer visible to the incensed man behind him. Sure enough, the innkeeper stopped short, eyeing the doorway with clear concern as he groused, “Soon had bloody well better be at first light, witcher!” 

“Ah! My dear sir, it is a pleasure to finally-” 

Geralt whipped his head around as the bard swanned past, resting a light hand on Geralt’s arm. 

“Jaskier, what the f-” 

“ _To finally_ ,” the younger man repeated loudly, burying Geralt’s profanity amid his own continuous speech, “meet you in person!”

He sketched a delicate bow before their host, one hand still on Geralt’s bicep, a subtle support the witcher noted immediately. The bow was shallower and without his usual flourishing, but enough to lift the brows of the red-faced innkeeper, who likely didn’t earn himself many such signs of respect. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz at your service... Jaskier the bard to my friends. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness in not introducing myself earlier, but as I’m sure Master Geralt here has told you, I have been quite regrettably indisposed.” He laid a hand against his side, the dark shirt’s hem rising for a discreet moment to allow a glimpse of the bandages beneath. “Geralt, would you mind terribly…?” The tilt of his head indicated the open doorway, which both men still gave a healthy berth. 

“You’re supposed to be resting.” 

Jaskier’s airy chuckle was aggravatingly dismissive. 

“But thanks to your - and our host’s - excellent care, I am greatly recovered, as you see.” His dark head bobbed toward the doorway again, eyes insistent. 

“Your host’s ‘excellent care’ was to try and throw our things out in the mud… repeatedly.” Geralt added a sour glare at the innkeeper who paled, but held his ground, saying, “He owes four nights’ payment, plus damages for the front door and table.”

“A misunderstanding that I’m confident we can work past,” the bard persisted, cheerful smile growing slightly fixed as he stared expectantly at the witcher.

With a low growl, Geralt turned to the door, gratified by the way the innkeeper took a hasty step back. A short gesture was all it took to lower the ward, and Jaskier’s smile leapt back into place as he gracefully extended a hand over the threshold, as if the bard were dressed in silks at a nobleman’s feast, not barefoot in a tavern wearing Geralt’s extra shirt and trousers. Surprisingly, the innkeeper accepted his hand, eying Geralt suspiciously until Jaskier drew his attention back. 

“Your hospitality has been just as generous as we had heard in our travels.” Geralt resisted the urge to turn his gaze to the heavens but Jaskier’s grin was broad and bright, his stage smile. “And as I understand we have been slightly belated in our, ah, remuneration for said hospitality, I have a business proposition that I think will more than satisfy any deficit caused by our stay.” Jaskier’s confiding step toward the other man required him to let go of Geralt’s shoulder, and while he looked the picture of confidence resting his palm against the doorframe, Geralt could hear the increase in his heart rate as his exhausted body fought to maintain his cool and casual demeanor. “You may have heard the tales told of the mighty witcher, Geralt of Rivia...? Well, we have just returned from what may be his most perilous adventure thus far, and in gratitude for your assistance, I would be honored if you would allow me to make your inn the stage for the first performance of this tale.”

That was enough. Geralt took the bard’s arm, turning his back to the innkeeper still waiting in the doorway. 

“Jaskier.” He leaned in to catch his wayward friend’s impatient gaze. “You’re not playing.” 

“Oh? Right, yes, I must have just imagined the part just now where _I offered_ my _own_ talents to cover our not-insubstantial debt.” 

“I’ll take care of it,” Geralt seethed, teeth grinding at the incredulous look the bard shot his way. 

“Really? Well, then, please share with the class how exactly you plan to ‘take care of it’.” 

The witcher clenched his jaw and fixed his eyes on the space just beside the bard’s tilted head, fumbling for words through the rankling frustration as Jaskier watched him, waiting for an answer like a parent mid-scolding. When he met Jaskier’s gaze again, he knew the answer wasn’t going to be enough, but then, it was doubtful anything would.

“I’ll leave Roach as collateral. Come back when I have the money.” 

“You’re gonna _pawn_ Roach?” His voice had dropped to a scandalized hiss.

“I’m _not pawning_ her, she’d just be-” 

“Gentlemen…?” Both heads turned to the neglected innkeeper, who spoke cautiously, clearly aware of the daggers Geralt was glaring at him. “I believe my patrons would appreciate a little entertainment. If the bard feels up to it, of course...” His dark eyes ran over Jaskier head to toe, skepticism lifting one brow.

Jaskier freed his arm from Geralt’s hold with a curt tug, stepping past him to say, “Excellent! I look forward to the opportunity to repay your great kindness to us.” 

Geralt’s fingers curled into a fist around the air where the bard’s arm had been, and he reminded himself, as he stormed over to their gear, that this was a good sign. Jaskier being argumentative and insufferable again meant he was truly on the mend. Didn’t make him any less frustrated with the man’s inability to sit still and let his body heal, though, Geralt thought as he busied himself tucking the empty vials away for later use. Maybe he could replenish his supply of potions. He’d used a couple healing draughts to reduce the gash in his leg to an angry red line, and it was always good to have a couple on hand. 

He glanced up as the innkeeper shook Jaskier’s hand again, looking reluctantly content with the agreement. Jaskier carried on, saying, “Suppose we say tomorrow night? Give you time to put the word about, let people clear their schedules, you know. I would be more than happy to offer a few consecutive rounds of evening entertainment for your patrons, as happy listeners often bring back friends thirsty for music... and of course, your excellent ale.”

The innkeeper grunted, offering a nod to Jaskier and a wary look in Geralt’s direction before leaving. Jaskier beamed at his retreating back for two watchful seconds before releasing his breath in a long, controlled sigh, a world of tension leaving his shoulders as he shut the door and turned back to Geralt. 

“Well, you couldn’t have made that any harder for me, could you?” 

“I could’ve told him you haven’t even begun to write that song…” he grumbled back, moving to light the candle as the bright orange glow of the sunset had long since faded to twilight. He could hear the younger man’s footsteps dragging a little, and turned to meet him partway, ignoring the poisonous glare the bard shot him.

With Geralt’s help, Jaskier sat back heavily against the headboard, gaze tight and dark as he studied the opposite wall. Geralt turned, frustration drawing a hard line along his jaw as he began to arrange the bandages he’d need to rewrap Jaskier’s wound. Beside him, the bard spoke up again, voice flat and tired.

“Look, if it bothers you so much, I’ll leave you out of the set tomorrow. I’ll come up with something else.” Geralt’s fingers froze over the strips of cloth. “You want me to stop singing about you, that’s fine, I’ll just… stop.”

“Jaskier!” he snapped, swinging to face the bard, who looked up at him in shock. “You’ve been _stabbed_ , lost so much blood your _heart_ nearly stopped, and you’ve hardly been _awake_ half a day! You shouldn’t have to cover lodgings as well, it’s not f-” Geralt broke off, nails digging into the wooden back of the chair. He breathed a heavy sigh as the words on his tongue were echoed in his memory by the bard’s quiet, hurt tone: _Well, that’s not fair…_ When he continued, he made sure his anger was calmed, letting it give way to the concern that drove it. “It’s not fair to you.” 

Jaskier was sitting very still, eyes resting almost warily on Geralt, rolling the hem of his borrowed shirt between his fingers. His eyebrows quirked once before he spoke softly, the bitterness of the words almost an afterthought.

“Well, I won’t argue with you there. Bit of a change from lately, though... you caring about what’s ‘fair’.” Geralt only sighed, chest tight as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, gesturing at the wound as he spoke.

“Need to see if it’s reopened… and change the dressing.” 

Jaskier shut his eyes for a long moment, but then leaned forward without complaint, lifting the hem of the dark shirt. If the wound had bled, it hadn’t been enough to soak through, and Geralt breathed a sigh of relief at that. The mass of bruising across the younger man’s chest was just beginning to lighten at the edges as well, though he was sure it still ached badly as the damaged rib underneath knit itself back together. He set to work silently, removing the old bandages and washing the wound. It had bled a little, no more than expected, though, with the bard’s unpredictable movements. Partway through his search for any sign of infection, Geralt caught the subtle sway of the bard’s torso. He shifted closer as he began to wind clean bandages around his waist, automatically offering the support of his shoulder as he had night after night.

Jaskier ignored the light tug on his sleeve, however, deliberately bracing himself against the mattress instead. The tension didn’t leave the bard’s body, and Geralt wasn’t surprised when that tension soon escaped in words.

“What are you doing, Geralt?” The murmured words weren’t curious. Instead they held a challenge, quiet as they were. “Four nights ought to be enough to assuage your guilt, if that’s what this is.” When Geralt looked up, Jaskier ignored his glance, looking resolutely over his shoulder, his eyes dark as bruises in the dim light.

“No, that’s…” Geralt trailed off. “That’s not it. Not all of it,” he finished lamely. He couldn’t deny that guilt was a factor. It had been eating away at him for days, chasing away any thought of rest like a hound sending birds into flight. His mind was deeply, achingly tired, but even he, the supposedly-stoic witcher, knew that if he let this opening slide by, he may never get another one. It was time to be done with the endless circles and knots of emotion. They clearly wouldn't be undone by scrutiny, or the ache in his chest and throat might’ve eased instead of growing heavier every time he saw that wound, remembered inflicting it. Then his thoughts had inevitably followed the events back, winding up the mountain to those stupid, rash, cruel words that had wedged this bitter silence between him and the one person who truly seemed to care whether he lived or died.

“Well… what, then?” Jaskier asked quietly. He hadn’t moved, and Geralt glanced up to find blue eyes watching him, a slight frown stitching the bard’s brows closer as he waited for an answer. He looked back to the bandage as he tied it off, staying where he was for now, in case the bard’s arm gave out. Small tremors had started in the strained muscles, but Geralt wasn’t sure Jaskier would appreciate being told to lie down just yet. He let out a breath and fumbled for a moment before giving up.

“I’m not… good with words.” 

The bard snorted, then winced, drawing a careful breath before saying lightly, “As it happens, you're in luck. I've no pressing engagements at present.” 


	6. Chapter 6

_“I’m not… good with words.”_

_ The bard snorted, then winced, drawing a careful breath before saying lightly, “As it happens, you're in luck. I've no pressing engagements at present.”  _

Anyone who spent more than two minutes around Geralt would realize words weren’t his strong suit, but hearing that admission from the witcher’s own mouth was unexpected enough to give Jaskier pause. His side hurt devilishly thanks to his exertions, meager though they were, but the bard didn’t dare move from his upright posture yet. Behind those restless amber eyes was something genuine that Geralt felt the need to tell him, and that constellation appeared in the sky so rarely that Jaskier was willing to bring his own limited patience into convergence for the sake of hearing what he would say.

Which wasn’t to say this particular constellation would be a pleasant omen, of course… The stars were often unkind, and the last time Geralt had spoken his mind to Jaskier had quite possibly been the most painful interaction of the bard’s life. 

Lips pressed thin, the witcher drew a measured breath through his nose and held it for a beat, something Jaskier had often seen him do in those suspended seconds before a fight enveloped him, then said, “I’ve been thinking…” And oh, there was a veritable dragon’s hoard of potential for nettling in that little pause, but Geralt beat him to it, casting a light glare past furrowed brows before Jaskier could do more than open his mouth. “You were right. It wasn’t fair, what I said to you.” 

Jaskier shut his mouth, and considered the words, turning their shape and sound over in his head. Both those sentences were ones he’d often hoped to hear from the other man over the years, and here they had just been gifted to him in a single breath. Instead of the warm glow of vindication he’d expected to feel, however, he just felt… hollow. Emptied, actually, with nothing but a thin dusting of satisfaction at hearing the witcher admit that much, at least. To borrow time, he gingerly rearranged himself and his pillow, sitting back; Geralt did the same, moving to the chair again, elbows on his knees as he leaned forward wearily. 

Geralt just sat there, gaze averted, probably waiting for Jaskier to say something. So he cleared his throat, took a breath, and said, “No, it wasn’t fair.” Golden eyes looked up, watching him silently, waiting for him to continue, and he dragged the words up out of the emptiness in his chest. “But that’s not really the point, though, is it? Fair or not, I mean… the truth will out, as they say. I just wish you’d told me nine or ten years ago and saved us both the time and misery.” 

The silver brows furrowed, gaze darting amid the flickering candlelight as if it held the answer to some urgent question. When the silence dragged on, Jaskier continued, “Although, now, looking back, I suppose the gut-punches and the cold shoulder and the threats were-” 

“It _wasn’t_ the truth. I was angry.” 

“Yeah.” His scoff was a flinty chip of sound. “Sorry, but I’ve sung in enough taverns to know that ale and anger are the two things that bring out people’s real opinions. Get a man drunk enough or aggravated enough and believe me, he’ll tell you right out what he really thinks of you.” 

And Geralt dared to look over at him with disbelief lifting his frown, like it was baffling to him that Jaskier didn’t know any better than that. As if Jaskier’s years of performing and seeing this played out in front of him nightly was nothing compared to Geralt’s witchery knowledge and experience. Jaskier was about to tell him what he could do with that condescending air, when Geralt spoke, low and earnest. 

“Anger _twists_ truth.” 

Suddenly, Jaskier remembered following Geralt through certain towns and villages where sobbing mothers screamed at the witcher for arriving too late to save their sons, or men all but stoned him for robbing their pride by killing a monster they could not. The violence of their pain had been honest and true, just woefully misdirected. Geralt continued quietly, “I was losing her… Yen. For a moment I wished I’d never even seen her. It was the djinn who led me to her, and my child surprise that drove her away. I wished none of it had happened. There was no more truth in what I said than that.” 

Geralt was still hunched over, half in shadow where the candlelight couldn’t reach. Part of Jaskier wanted to reach out, to link the two lonely pools of darkness they each sat in, but most of him simply hurt. Geralt had made a genuine effort to clarify things, and he supposed he should be grateful for that - at least the witcher wasn’t actually addled enough to think Jaskier was responsible for events he’d had no control over. But that’s where the other man’s words had ended, and Jaskier hated how quickly his hopes had risen, disappointment settling as an aching lump in his throat. 

Because for over ten years he’d devoted his whole heart to this friendship, done his best to coax it into life like the flickering beginnings of a fire. Not so long ago, he had been deeply, richly glad of how that blaze had grown, no matter how well-hidden that light had been on the witcher’s side. Only, as it turns out, he’d been deluding himself all those years. The fire was only a story he’d spun for himself, whispering warmth into the cold gaps between the White Wolf’s growls. And whether Geralt had been too noble to disillusion him or too selfish to lose his improved public image, it didn’t matter. The man who asked nothing at all from life had been unflinchingly clear in saying that the one blessing he craved was Jaskier’s absence, and here he sat in front of Jaskier now, as if waiting for his forgiveness, the absolution that would free him of this last inconvenient tether.

“Well… thank you,” he said, forcing his voice into something close to steadiness. “It is a bit much to be blamed for all the mistakes of another man’s life, especially when the other fellow brought most of it on himself.” He was courting destruction, most likely, by not accepting the peace offering the witcher had extended to him. Tossing it back in that somber, stony face was undoubtedly a poor decision. But he was so tired his eyes burned, and his side hurt like that dagger had pierced straight through to the hollowness inside of him. “Look, I don’t… I don’t understand what you want from me, Geralt. You want my forgiveness? Well, here - you’ve got it. It’s all yours. You can carry on with a clean conscience.” The hollowness was coming out in his voice, pressing and pricking behind his eyes, so he hardened his voice to hide it.

“‘Cause that’s what you want, isn’t it? A clean conscience so you can go off and follow your Path and hunt monsters and not worry about what’s left behind.” He could hear himself rambling, but lacked the will and energy to stop himself. “And I don’t blame you. I don’t. Because you’ve managed to get what men across the continent would kill their own _mothers_ for. You asked for _one_ thing, just one, and destiny handed it right to you.” Geralt’s jawline was hard in the dim light, hands contracting into fists on his knees, but Jaskier kept going, the flaring pain in his side only pushing him on. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still here. I couldn’t follow you down to the bloody _stables_ right now, let alone out of town, even if I wanted to. I’m _off your hands!_ So why don’t you stop dragging your feet and let me sleep already?”

Geralt lurched to his feet, sending the chair skidding, and Jaskier actually startled back against the headboard. But the witcher was headed for the door, two long strides away before rounding on Jaskier again, eyes wolf-sharp in the dim light as he snarled, “You’ve followed me for _years_ , Jaskier - when have you _ever_ seen life offer me _anything_ more than misery? How many ways do I have to put it for you to get it through your thick skull that I’m _sorry?_ That I haven’t had a moment’s rest since uttering those _damnable_ words?” 

With conscious effort, Jaskier spread his clenched hands flat against the blankets, blinking as he realized the witcher was actually, genuinely apologizing. This wasn’t some half-hearted attempt to tie up loose ends before leaving, as he’d feared. This was apparently Geralt pushed to the limit of his ability to express himself, and Jaskier had just been too self-absorbed to see it.

Geralt had returned to the bedside, one hand on the back of the chair as he studied the single candle by the window. His slow, deliberate breaths set the flame dancing at intervals, painting shadow under his eyes and along his face, and Jaskier cast about for something to say that would break the oppressive silence. Instead, Geralt spoke again, voice as openly weary as he’d ever heard it.

“Seeing you with that knife in your gut was… the single most terrifying moment of my life,” he said, slowly circling the chair to sit again, facing the door. “I was stupid, arrogant, and cruel, and it nearly got you killed.” 

The witcher fell silent, and Jaskier sat as quiet fell over the room, settling like dust on their bowed heads and in the folds of their clothing. He found himself suddenly without words, fighting down a wave of confused emotion, because of course this was what he’d hoped for, but not at all what he’d expected. Clearly this had been on Geralt’s mind for some time, the words building up into what amounted to a speech from the practically-silent man. And Geralt just kept talking, voice low, elbows now resting on his knees and one hand rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“I should have followed you, stopped you before you ever reached that cave. But I figured if destiny saw fit to strip me of every joy in my life, then fighting to keep you by my side would be tempting fate to snatch you away as well.” His hand dropped to his lap again, head turning to glance over his shoulder, not quite looking at Jaskier but acknowledging him. “I’d rather you left alive and angry, than watch you be killed or eaten by some monster I’m not quick enough to kill.” The silver head tilted slightly, dry humor seasoning the self-deprecation in his tone. “Though I see now that the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.” 

The huff of laughter escaped Jaskier before he thought about it, mind and heart stepping back into the familiar rhythms eagerly. Still, though, just to be sure - because plainly communication was an ongoing issue between them - he ventured, “So, would it be, um, heinously presumptuous of me to take what you’ve said...” He circled a hand briefly between them, trusting the witcher’s peripheral vision to pick it up. “... just now, to mean that not only do you _prefer_ me alive and un-devoured, but also that you do actually enjoy my company now and again? That you might even, finally, at long last, consider us friends?” 

Geralt took a breath to speak, then let it out. He turned to sit facing the bed and searched Jaskier’s questioning gaze for only a moment before the golden eyes ticked to the side and he spoke, a slight frown drawing his expression into something between anger and sadness. 

“Jaskier… before you came along... the only people to ever take interest in me beyond my coin or services were the witchers at Kaer Morhen.” Something like shame settled across the witcher’s features and he ducked his head again, staring into the past as his voice spoke on, a low rumble. “And they were the same who put five young boys in a dark room, pumped us full of toxins, and waited for us to either mutate or die…” 

This was worse than all the foolish rumors of where witchers came from, worse than Jaskier had imagined, and he swallowed back a swell of nausea. None of the witcher’s rare revelations about his profession had ever touched on how he’d become a witcher. After being rebuffed a few times, Jaskier had assumed the truth was either a sworn secret or so mundane Geralt didn’t want to spend breath on it. 

“I was the only one who left that room alive. We were ten years old,” Geralt added softly, with the weight of a remembered pain long since accepted. To take children and subject them to an ordeal that made even Geralt of Rivia shrink from speaking of it…. Small wonder witchers chose not to feel. Jaskier’s own heart ached for that long-ago child.

“I’ve never had… this…” Geralt waved a hand vaguely between them. “It was assumed in our studies that, to the humans we’d meet, a witcher would always be little better than his quarry.” Gaze lowered, Geralt pressed on, words rough as gravel, slow with exhaustion. “I’m not your friend… only because I don’t know how to be. But I think, perhaps, you’ve been mine.” He met Jaskier’s eyes again, open and earnest. “And… I would be honored if you would give me a chance to try again.” The faintest smile flickered across his lips, almost missed in the wavering candlelight. “To prove myself a ‘worthy travel companion.’”

For the span of a few breaths, Jaskier simply looked back at the other man, marveling. In a way, it was vindicating to learn that the wry banter, the extra waterskin being tossed at him on a hot day, and all the other gruff gestures were, as he’d suspected, affection buried under a deep layer of denial and chronic brooding. More importantly, though, he realized that he was profoundly unworthy of the trust and hope Geralt had just laid at his feet. 

When Jaskier was ten years old, he’d been driving his parents mad with musical limericks and fighting imaginary trolls with a stick for a sword. When Geralt was ten, he’d lost any family he may have had in exchange for what sounded like terror and callous experimentation. Then whatever training or ‘studies’ the witchers provided were clearly focused on creating unstoppable monster-slayers, without a thought or care given for the men themselves. Quite honestly, it was nothing short of a miracle Geralt was as well-adjusted as he was. Granted, Jaskier had never met any other witchers, but the odds of them having the same selfless compassion and moral backbone weren’t worth betting on. Not to mention, from what he’d just heard, it was entirely possible that Yennefer’s ice-cold exit on the mountain was Geralt’s first taste of the exquisitely painful wine that was heartbreak. He should probably take it as another precious glimmer of light from the witcher that when Jaskier had then tramped straight into the middle of that, Geralt had only gutted him _verbally_.

And this same man, who could rip a selkimore open from the inside and stroll off for an ale, had essentially just confessed to Jaskier that he was clueless how to be a half-decent friend, and would Jaskier please give him another chance to try? It was the emotional equivalent of handing Jaskier one of his deadly blades and then turning his back, knowing almost anybody would try to run him through, but knowing with equal certainty that Jaskier would not. If he’d thought he had the strength just now (and the assurance that a sleep-deprived Geralt wouldn’t throw him across the room), he might have pulled the witcher right into a fierce hug. 

As it was, he pulled his gaze from the hem of his shirt where it had drifted as he thought, the stitches slowly fraying under his fingers, and turned back to Geralt with a smile. The witcher’s own smile had vanished, though, expression duller, and Jaskier realized just how long he’d been caught up in his own head while Geralt was sitting there waiting for his answer. Waiting as Jaskier stayed silent and pulled at threads and appeared to avoid looking at him… blast.

“If you would prefer I leave, I can be gone by first light.” Geralt’s voice was low as he nodded once, gaze averted as if he’d accepted his fate. Jaskier saw the shift in his posture, ready to rise and probably start packing right now, and hastily caught the witcher’s sleeve with his fingertips. When the perplexed gaze landed on him, the bard said, “You, my dear friend, are going nowhere at all.” Confusion turned to hope in those golden eyes as Jaskier continued, “Partially because we are essentially hostages here until I sing us free of debt. But primarily because I am in desperate need of at least eight hours of sleep, and you and Roach aren’t setting foot on the road to grand and glorious adventure without me at your side.” 

As if Jaskier’s words held some spell within them, what looked like years’ worth of tension melted away from Geralt’s shoulders, a rare, wide smile gracing his features as he chuckled, “I doubt she’d let me leave before she got the chance to pay you back for bleeding all down her side.” 

Jaskier made a mental note to purchase the mare all the sugar cubes he could fit in his pockets. For a few uncounted moments, both men simply breathed, weariness settling peacefully over them both and drawing them into companionable silence. Jaskier was roused from that drowsy calm only when a heavy hand came to rest on his arm and he was gifted with two more words he’d never thought he’d hear from the witcher. 

“Thank you.” Tiredness had returned the other man’s face to its usual gravity, but the honest relief still rang clearly in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier’s intended reply of “My pleasure,” was interrupted by a massive yawn that made his ribs creak. By the time he’d finished dealing with the complicated rationing of breath this required, all he had left to offer was a wheezy “...ow.”

With Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, he carefully worked himself flat on the mattress, releasing a grateful groan when he was fully horizontal. After a long minute, he glanced over at Geralt, slightly surprised to see the other man settle his shoulders against the chair’s hard back, as if preparing to meditate the night away sitting there, and that was not acceptable.

Thankfully, the chair wasn’t far, and Jaskier was able to reach out and prod the witcher with his foot, mumbling, “Oi… go to sleep.” He received only a dismissive hum in response. “Come on. You’ve sat up with me for four nights, Geralt - even you must need sleep at this point. I’ll be fine tonight. And it’s gonna be hard to convince my audience of your benevolence if you’re sitting there with big bags under your eyes, doing that thing where you make people fear for their lives by looking in their direction. Go on.”

After a pause in which Geralt watched him, gaze flicking from Jaskier’s sleepy eyes to the door and back, he nodded, seemingly satisfied that the bard wouldn't be in any danger. The innkeeper had no reason to throw them out before the performance the following night, and while he’d clearly had enough of the surly witcher, the prospect of a good bit of coin and happy customers should keep the man from bothering them for tonight, at least. Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Geralt pushed to his feet and lumbered over to their bags, throwing a wry look across the room as he said, “Your audience may be in for a disappointment. Unless you’ve managed to compose a full song in less than half a day.” 

Jaskier mulled over his possible answers as Geralt arranged his bedroll so that opening the door more than a few inches would hit his feet and alert him to the intruder. He decided he was too tired to offer anything that wasn’t the naked truth and mumbled, “I’ve got a line… or two…” 

The witcher huffed at that, easing himself down on top of the blanket with a sigh that was almost a groan, not even bothering to remove his boots. It was clear from the rummaging involved that the bedroll hadn’t been used for days, buried under their other things, and it struck him that Geralt’s mention of not having a moment’s rest since the mountain might very well have been literal. Sometime soon, after they’d both recovered a bit, Jaskier would need to have a chat with Geralt about his lack of self-care. Between his protective post at the door and the growling, Geralt’s shadowed form could have been an enormous black wolfhound keeping watch so his companion could sleep in peace, and Jaskier couldn’t help a fond smile as he leaned up to blow out the candle.

************************************************

It was with extreme reluctance that Jaskier allowed the warm caress of daylight to draw him out of a very contented sleep. He dearly wished he could just roll over and sleep the day away. However, duty called, in this case in the form of an innkeeper who expected a spectacular performance tonight. To which end Jaskier needed, in no particular order: breakfast, a bath, a melody, and a set of passably-good lyrics. Enough time to rehearse would be lovely, but he couldn’t rehearse what he didn’t have yet, so….

He slid out of bed gingerly, wary of waking the witcher, who was stretched out on his stomach, strands of silver hair across his face and the weight of a deep sleep pulling his expression into one of rare relaxation. Mindful of how infrequently Geralt ever had this opportunity, Jaskier padded around as quietly as possible, nibbling at a handful of cheese as he lifted his lute free of the rest of their baggage. 

Crafting this ballad would have been challenging enough simply due to the time constraints; he estimated he only had about seven or eight hours before people started filtering into the tavern below. However, his first attempt at vocal warmups left him clutching his ribs and blinking sparkles from his vision. Deep breaths were, unfortunately, entirely out of the question, which created a whole new problem for the bard. 

“Come on, Jask,” he breathed, staring down at the elegant lines of his lute while he waited for the throbbing in his side to abate. “You’re a professional. It’s this or prison, probably… Come on.” Drawing a less ambitious breath, he began again. 

An hour later, he’d managed to make it through the basic warmups several times, and learned what sort of inhalations his ribs found marginally acceptable, and while he was terribly sore, he was also pleased with his success so far. He wouldn’t be belting out rowdy drinking songs at his usual volume, but he could at least make himself heard, which was half the battle. The other half was to work this story into a song that could capture the imagination without requiring any meaningful lung capacity. He sighed, pouring himself a cup of water, wishing it was something stronger. 

He spent the rest of the morning perched on the bed, bent alternately over his notebook and the familiar curves of his lute in concentration. The first ripple of melody drew a startled snuffle from Geralt, the first sound he’d made all day, and Jaskier froze with a hand flat on the strings to silence them. But the witcher simply sighed and delved back under the blanket, and Jaskier let himself breathe again. Once the plucking of lute strings had been added to Geralt’s unconscious tally of acceptable ambience (which apparently already included Jaskier’s voice), the scraps of music didn’t seem to disturb the other man further, and the bard settled back into his composing. 

As early afternoon came on, Jaskier sat back and scrubbed his hands over his face, both worn out and satisfied. By some miracle of inspiration and desperation, he’d pieced together something passable. The overall quality at the moment was nothing like his usual work, and he had a feeling he’d be fine-tuning the lyrics right up until he opened his mouth to sing them. The melody, though, was a lovely, yearning thing he was quite proud of, styled to let the lyrics build the momentum for the story, rather than requiring extra volume from Jaskier himself. What he was markedly less proud of was his current state of hygiene and apparel, both of which he intended to remedy as soon as possible. Lute and lyrics set aside, he approached the single hurdle between himself and a hot, luxurious bath.

“Um, Geralt?”

No response. That alone spoke volumes about how tired the witcher must be, and Jaskier felt like a cad for persisting in his attempt to wake the man. But the door wouldn’t open more than a hand’s span before being stopped by Geralt’s body, and trim figure or not, Jaskier didn’t have the agility right now to thread himself through the doorway. “Geralt, could you just scoot yourself a little-” 

As he carefully dragged the door past Geralt’s legs, the witcher belatedly lurched up against the pressure, eyes unfocused and hands seeking his weapons, and Jaskier hastily said, “It’s only me! Sorry. Just me. Just gonna go freshen up and…” A wordless grunt, and Geralt rolled aside, allowing Jaskier to slip past and shut the door carefully. 

In the process of the morning, he’d found a tender spot or two on his jaw and cheekbone that he assumed were bruises from brawling with the smoke-demon-thing, and he knew he cut a pretty pathetic figure in Geralt’s ill-fitting tunic, but he didn’t expect the conversation to drop away so dramatically when he entered the main tavern. For a moment he looked back at all the startled faces and hunched sets of shoulders, baffled. Then the murmurs picked up again, slowly rising back to the usual afternoon buzz as everybody went back to what they were eating, drinking, or betting on. 

Tucking that odd little moment away for later consideration, Jaskier made his way to the sturdy woman across the room who was undoubtedly the innkeeper’s wife, chivying a small flock of serving maids onward with a snap of her apron. Before he’d even opened his mouth, however, she stopped him in his tracks with a look that could have killed a weaker man where he stood. As it was, Jaskier found himself desperately trying to work out whose mother she might be and how swiftly he ought to be fleeing right now. Her eyes scoured him disapprovingly as she said, “We’re not cooking up any cures for hangovers. I warned all you lot last night.” 

“Ah, actually, I just wondered if-”

But her stern frown already lifted, though Jaskier hadn’t even gotten to finish asking for the bath to be arranged, and she descended upon him with a look of chiding sympathy on her broad face.

“You must be the young lad who’s had us so worried these past days! The witcher’s bard, isn’t it? I ought to have known you weren’t among those layabouts last night - I’d have remembered someone earning a knock or two like that.” She eyed his face, tutting, then continued, “Now that you’re on your feet - although barely, by the looks of it, pet - I’m sure you’ll be wanting a hot bath and some supper before you go on singing for us tonight. Follow me.” 

Jaskier had little choice but to follow in the wake of her skirts, stammering, “Uh, I… thank you, that would be lovely,” as he tried to keep pace with her efficient stride back up the stairs. She led him to a generously-sized room equipped with a large tub, a ready fire, and all the necessary accoutrements, and nodded Jaskier to a low stool across the fire from her, saying, “You’d best sit. No sense you standing like a scarecrow waiting on me. Though you’re looking a grand sight better than you did when that witcher brought you in the other night, storming in like that, and you bleeding across my tables.” She added several logs to the hearth, nudging them into place with the poker.

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, glad he had no memory of that scene. The whole ride from the cave to the inn was a nightmarish blur to him, and he didn’t fancy scrutinizing any of it too closely. Several beats too late, he blurted, “Yeah, um, sorry… I hope it’ll scrub out, or…” Once again, he was tutted at. 

“None of your apologies! Honestly, most of us thought you’d likely breathed your last that night itself, and were lying up here cold with no one to sit up for you save that white-haired devil. At least he did right by bringing you here and fetching help for you.” 

Her tone, motherly though it was, made Jaskier’s hackles rise a bit. It was the same old superstitions, the same scapegoating Geralt was subjected to nearly every place they went. Everybody automatically lumped him in with the monsters he killed for them, and the bard was well and truly sick of it. In deference to the woman’s ready access to boiling water, and her status as partner in clearing him and Geralt of their money owed, however, he kept his tone pleasant as he replied, “Geralt can be a bit, ah, off-putting at first. Bit gruff, not big on the social niceties, you know. But he’s the most honorable man I’ve ever met. The kind who’ll save your life and not ask a thing in return.” 

The woman’s expression was unconvinced, a hint of humor at the corners of her mouth as if she were tolerating his opinion as the ramblings of a recovering invalid, to be brushed off her apron as soon as she left the room. Rather than spoil her generous mood by pressing the point, Jaskier reminded himself that a dose of Geralt’s achievements set to music, plus meeting the man himself, would go farther toward setting her straight than him arguing would. Once the tub was filled to the brim with steaming water, she swept to the door, pausing when Jaskier remembered to ask her whether his clothes had come back from being cleaned.

“No, pet,” she replied, a pitying look Jaskier didn’t like at all coming across her face. “I’m afraid nobody gave us any clothes to send off. But I wouldn’t think they’d have been worth saving, the state they were in.” Suddenly, Jaskier saw himself performing in just a few hours, draped in the same wrinkled black clothing perfumed with four days of sickbed sweat, and was glad he was already sitting down. Seeing the open dismay on his face, she seemed to consider for a moment, then said, “Now then, don’t worry yourself. Let me see what I can come up with.” 

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, because at this point, anything would be a step up in the wardrobe department, and the woman chuckled, saying, “For thanks, you can just make sure your friend knows that if he wants something from the larder or from cook, all he needs to do is ask with a civil tongue in his head. Now your room and board is handled, he won’t get any trouble from my husband, you tell him.” 

She shut the door, and Jaskier decided to put that little anecdote with the one where everybody twitched like cornered rabbits when he arrived downstairs, both for a future discussion with Geralt. But for now, the bath was piping hot, and he wasted no time setting his clothes aside on the stool. Beneath the bandages, his left side was mottled like a bruised pear, all blues and browns and greens, with the dagger wound an innocuous little notch amidst the colors. The gash on his palm was healing well, only a little reddened from playing chords against the neck of his lute. It made a second lifeline next to the first, albeit a much wider and more painful one.

Slowly and gratefully, he sank down to his chin in utter bliss, letting the steaming water soak through all the aching reminders of the last few days and ease them away. Sometime during his half-dozing soak, a maid left a neatly-folded set of clothes on a nearby chair. They were simply made, and rather too broad in the shoulder for him, but a better fit than Geralt’s, and they would certainly do for tonight’s impromptu performance. Before leaving the warm, humid haven of the bath room, Jaskier peered into the cloudy mirror, reluctantly realizing why the lady of the establishment had likely taken him under her wing so forcefully. 

The bruises to his jaw and cheekbone were dark against his skin, and there was still a line like scarlet thread where the creature had made him draw the dagger across his own throat. He shuddered, but lingered before the glass a moment more. At least he looked the part for the tale he was about to tell. And if he started the evening with a few well-known favorites to put some cheer in the air, perhaps by the time he reached the new material, the crowd might be a little more open to hearing the tale of a witcher who was nothing at all like the demon he fought.


	7. Chapter 7

The day passed in a lazy way that Geralt was not at all accustomed to. With the prospect of a good bit of coin on the horizon, the innkeeper and his staff were suddenly much more accommodating and Geralt woke to find Jaskier seated on the bed, damp-haired, scribbling away in his notebook and wearing a fresh set of clothes. He’d apparently managed to rebandage the wound himself with little trouble, so without the need to stand guard or go on further raids of the kitchen for food, Geralt found himself with nothing to do but look after Roach and clean his weapons for the hundredth time. So it was that when Jaskier insisted on ordering a bath for him, Geralt had no reason or excuse to refuse and, as Jaskier pointed out, it wouldn’t do them any good to sing the praises of a heroic witcher who was sat in the corner smelling of horse manure and looking like he might very well be carrying several different types of plague in his filthy hair alone. 

Geralt gave in, secretly relishing the opportunity to soak his aching muscles in a hot bath rather than the cold streams he usually had to work with. His extra set of clothes was dumped unceremoniously near the bath by the innkeeper’s wife, freshly cleaned, no doubt at Jaskier’s request. When he returned to the room, feeling more refreshed than he had in months, Jaskier barely looked up from his work, pausing only to lob a comb at him, saying, “Do what you can with that.” The witcher found he had to confiscate the lute if he expected Jaskier to give in to the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders and eyes. After a token protest, the younger man stretched out and soon fell asleep with his notebook open on his chest. Geralt was pleased to see him spend the next several hours in restful sleep, waking in time to fuss over his sleep-tousled hair before they went downstairs.

Once they were seated comfortably at a table in the corner, Jaskier began to show his usual enthusiasm for a performance, practically buzzing with nervous excitement as the smell of fresh bread, hot stew, and good ale drew in the crowds.

“Whatever else I might say about our host, he certainly does have a thriving establishment here,” the younger man commented, craning his neck to squint into the far corners of the busy room. “It’s a shame this is all gonna go toward our bills…” His hand drifted behind them to his lute, propped carefully against the wall. Geralt stopped the overeager bard with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat without looking up from his tankard. 

“Dinner first. Or your stomach’s growling will drown you out.” 

“Hm. Yeah, fair point.” Releasing the lute, Jaskier stood with an eye on the bar; there was little hope of gaining the attention of one of the harried serving girls. “Stay put and try to look less like you’ll tear a limb off of anybody who speaks to you.” 

Geralt scoffed softly but did his best to relax. With practiced ease, the bard wound between the moving bodies and busy tables, returning shortly with the innkeeper’s wife in tow bearing a hearty meal for each of them. Geralt doubted he could have produced the same results in so short a time and had the good sense to cast their landlady an apologetic look. His smash-and-grab style raids had started the morning after they’d arrived, when coin had run out but moving Jaskier was still out of the question. By the next day, the cook and maids had taken to plastering themselves to the counters and walls whenever he’d entered, watching him warily as he took only what he needed to keep his and Jaskier’s strength up. Thankfully, Jaskier’s charm seemed to have smoothed over the worst of the woman’s wrath, and she even left them with a bowl of fruit and a motherly pat to Jaskier’s shoulder as she left.

The bard himself was still making last-minute revisions in his little book as they ate, and Geralt couldn’t help a quick look at the scribbled handwriting. He frowned as the phrase “lonely daughter of the sea” was crossed out, replaced by “lovely princess of the sea”. 

“I don’t recall a princess.” Jaskier looked up innocently and Geralt levelled him a warning look, which made no discernible difference to the bard’s wide-eyed expression.

“That’s the mystique and charm of the arts, my dear fellow: everybody sees things in their own way. And in your case,” he added, with a pointed look over his own pint, “the more glamor we can drizzle over your public image, the less we’ll have to dodge sticks and stones on our way out of towns. All stories gain a little embellishment in the telling - my listeners practically demand it!”

“‘Embellishment’ is little better than the rumors they tell each other,” he said, nodding at the crowd. 

Jaskier followed his gaze, surveying the boisterous group as he wiped his fingers clean, then looked back at Geralt with feigned affront, saying, “First of all, you do realize half of these people probably still think you eat children, or can poison the well by walking past it! I’d like to think my work cuts a little closer to the truth than ‘Ooh, big scary witcher - hide the children!’” 

He leaned back, fetching his lute up into his lap with a brief wince, and slipped the strap over his head. “And secondly, you’re forgiven for comparing my stellar wordsmithing to petty marketplace superstition. If you’ll excuse me, I have a more appreciative audience to enlighten.” The bard’s grin and firm pat on his shoulder as he stood undercut the feigned annoyance in his voice, and Geralt watched Jaskier wend his way toward the front of the room, fingers already flitting across the instrument’s strings to create a light, cheery tune that lifted heads from conversation as he passed.

He started with a couple crowd favorites, cleverly drawing the audience into singing along for the louder portions so he wouldn’t have to belt out lyrics that his cracked rib would voice complaints over. Geralt settled in as energy in the room rose and fell with each song, watching with interest as the bard played the crowd just as skillfully as he did the instrument in his hands. He played several bawdy drinking songs, lightening and keeping the crowd’s enthusiastic mood going before the first mention of witchers and monsters entered the queue. Geralt just watched, scanning the room on instinct, noting each man who entered with a weapon at his belt and each who called drunkenly for another drink, nearing the stages of liquor consumption that usually heralded violence or displays of affection. While he took stock of the room and monitored its inhabitants, Geralt kept some of his attention on Jaskier as he announced his latest composition and began a wistful tune. 

Within the first few lines, it became clear that Jaskier’s embellishments had all but buried the real story behind layer after layer of fine silken whimsy. A magical shell-strewn entry to the cave, a beautiful princess trapped by a hideous creature, rescued by the White Wolf and his dashing companion… it was absolutely ridiculous. And yet there was something fascinating in how the bard could take a place so full of death and darkness and twist it into a magical, even beautiful thing. That didn’t stop Geralt from snorting into his tankard as Jaskier described the nymph-princess swooning into his arms while Geralt slew the evil fiend imprisoning her. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a sudden roar went up from the crowd that was initially indistinguishable from rage, but turned out to be applause. One look at Jaskier’s wide grin had Geralt’s sudden rush of adrenaline dropping away in favor of annoyance, and the bard made his way back to their table, every hand he passed clapping him on the back. 

Geralt caught his friend’s eye as Jaskier sat down across from him, tilting his head at the wide smile across the bard’s face and fixing him with a warning look.

“Don’t let it go to your head. Most of these men are drunk enough to cheer on a banshee.” 

In the middle of a long draught from his own tankard, Jaskier could only glare expressively over the rim. Once he somehow managed to swallow without drowning, the bard waved a hand at Geralt’s face, coughing, “ _You…_ have no taste. The good people of Caingorn have spoken.” His wide gesture encompassed the room, still raucous with talk and cheer. 

“Hmm,” was all Geralt could offer. He couldn’t deny the ‘good people’ were being just as free with their coin as they were their ale and he watched as Jaskier played a few more songs, transitioning from the livelier songs to his more contemplative pieces as the energy in the room died down and customers began to dwindle. Geralt let him play until he returned for a drink and sat with eyes shut for a few long seconds, palm soothing across his ribs in careful strokes. 

“Sore?” he asked, already knowing the answer before the bard’s head canted his direction in reluctant agreement. Geralt rose, beckoning for Jaskier to follow. The bard relented, storing his lute with care in the leather case and offering the crowd a few flowery words of thanks and farewell while Geralt slung the leather strap over his own shoulder, leaving the bag of coin for Jaskier to carry as they set off for their room. 

Geralt let the bard count it, shaking his head fondly at the younger man’s excited exclamations and nonstop chattering about the changes he would make to the new song as soon as his chest stopped aching with every breath. It didn’t seem to matter to him one bit that their bag of coin was wordlessly handed over to the innkeeper as soon as he came knocking. Jaskier assured them both there would be plenty more where that came from, and he wasn’t wrong. 

The following nights played out just the same. The customers were thrilled with every rendition of the new ballad, and while the description of the monster or the stolen princess varied slightly, the majority of the song remained unchanged for the time being. This was partly due to the bard’s inability to take in a full breath without a wince, but also, Geralt suspected, so that the crowd would pick up the lyrics and join in more and more often as the song became more familiar. 

Within four days of rest and four nights of a welcoming audience, their debt was so close to being paid that Geralt thought they might actually have enough extra after tonight’s performance to cover the few provisions they’d need on the road. Jaskier’s wound had all but healed over, still covered by a bandage for now until the flesh could completely mend, but no longer in danger of bleeding too heavily if the bard was jostled by the crowd. The cut on his hand was even further healed, a loose wrapping keeping it covered to avoid infection since there was no telling what the bard might touch at any given time, and to provide a buffer for his palm against the neck of his lute, which had resumed its perpetual place in his hands now that he was back to his usual energetic self. 

The evening before they were to leave was the liveliest yet, the inn full to bursting, and Geralt was forced to abandon his usual place at the back of the room in favor of a table toward the front where he could keep an eye on Jaskier in case the crowd got over-excited or took offense at one of his more controversial tales. The bard took them through the final chorus of “Toss a Coin” before dropping to his seat across from Geralt, taking a large gulp of his third drink of the night. 

“Did my eyes deceive me, or did I see a certain witcher keeping time with the music just now? Little nod, tap of the toe?” 

“I’m sure you were mistaken,” Geralt deadpanned and caught the bard’s tankard as it rose to his lips once more, forcing it back to the table with one hand. “That’s enough ale. You’re still recovering and I’ll not have you starting a drunken brawl over an imaginary princess.” 

“You know, the sour complexion of jealousy is very unbecoming on you, Geralt. As it happens, that particular part of the song is _not_ mere poetic license, because I saw her with my own eyes.” As he spoke, Jaskier was attempting, and failing, to free his tankard from under Geralt’s hand. “She probably jumped out the window when you- Would you just-” 

Unable to pry Geralt’s hand from his own tankard, Jaskier reached past him to capture the witcher’s own drink. He triumphantly knocked it back, only to right himself with a tut of annoyance when the cup proved to be empty. Dragging the half-full tankard to his side of the table, Geralt tilted his head, watching as two men he’d kept a particularly close eye on rose, stumbling drunkenly over their feet. 

“Some of your adoring public approaches,” he grumbled, setting the tankard well out of the bard’s reach and turning subtly to free his feet from the table’s legs should the encounter prove problematic. Judging by the scowls on the men’s faces, and the fact that their conversation a table away had revolved around the veracity of the bard’s claims, they weren’t coming over to request a song.

“Oi!” The first man reached Jaskier’s seat and pointed a wavering finger in the bard’s face. “You… are a filthy liar. I’ve _seen_ a nymph an’ they don’t look nothin’ like no shinin’ princess! ” The man grinned widely, as if his declaration was a great triumph, and Geralt sighed. It was far more likely the man was remembering some dream brought on by far too much ale, but he could see the bard’s brow furrow.

“ _You’ve_ seen a nymph?” Jaskier looked the man over, skepticism lifting his voice up a few notes. “What, _locally_? You steal a kiss, too?” The man’s friend snickered and Geralt only just made out his muffled words behind his drink, “Aye, she was a real looker, that trout,” making his fellow sputter and turn red.

“ _You_ ,” he jabbed Jaskier in the shoulder with his finger, “are _lyin’_ about that nymph. An’ if you’re lyin’ about her, who’s to say you ain’t lyin’ about _him_ neither?” The jabbing finger was traded for a thumb, jerked in Geralt’s direction. 

Jaskier’s eyes tracked the gesture, then snapped back to the man’s face, and Geralt could actually see the bard’s hackles rise. The younger man stood up slowly, right into the big drunkard’s space, jaw jutting forward as he said, “Tell me - and be honest, _please_ \- which do you think is more likely? That a witcher who spends all his time protecting people like you from monsters your granny warned you about might actually be a decent person? Or that a gentle, ethereal daughter of the sea would come within a hundred miles of _that_ beer gut?” His voice had risen several notches by the last phrase, the hand not planted on his hip gesturing delicately at the impressive paunch in question. 

The man’s eyes widened as the insult slowly hit home in his booze-dulled brain and Geralt resigned himself to playing bodyguard. He caught the man by the collar of his shirt, jerking him a few steps backward, his clumsy swing falling short of the bard’s face by mere inches. Geralt took his place between the two men, hoping his mere presence would be enough to dissuade any further attempts at brawling, but he was sadly disappointed.

“Ohh, gonna have to be a little faster than that!” Jaskier’s smug laugh had the man fuming, beet red in the face, and apparently drunk enough to take his chances swinging at the witcher as well. Geralt felt his patience wearing thin as he leaned back enough to dodge the blow, catching the stocky man’s wrist in an iron grip. Behind him, Jaskier stepped up to his shoulder and said, “Now, I’m sure the famed White Wolf would be happy to personally answer any questions you might have for him, wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s warning was followed by a woman’s strong voice breaking over the rest of the chatter, her tone nearly identical to Geralt’s.

“Lars Svenson!” Geralt turned to see Jaskier make way for the innkeeper’s wife, whose stride did not bode well for the man wilting in Geralt’s grasp. “I’d ask for a good reason why you’re harassing my guests, but I don’t want to hear whatever stupid excuse you’ve got this time.” Shoulder-to-shoulder with Geralt between the tables, she ignored Svenson’s babbling and eyed his friend, who still lingered as an uneasy audience. “You both know your way in well enough; I trust you can find your way out.” 

Geralt looked down at the woman in surprise, not releasing his hold until Svenson’s struggling stilled to a surly glower. He and his friend muttered their apologies and wandered on stumbling steps toward the door, leaving Geralt to turn to the grinning bard and the stern face of their landlady.

“I’ll thank you for not giving those two the beating they rightfully deserved, witcher.” Her tone was cautiously approving and Geralt offered her a respectful nod.

“Are they regulars of yours?” Jaskier asked, watching with amusement as the two men navigated the complexities of the simple doorway with several bumps and curses shared between them. 

“Almost nightly,” she sighed. “Though they usually have enough sense to keep out of trouble.” Shaking her head, the woman produced a pouch from her apron pocket, pressing it to Jaskier’s hands. “These are your earnings. I’ve already taken out what was owed for the room and board.” Geralt frowned at that. It wasn’t a large bag, but they’d owed for more than just room and board.

“What about the door?” he queried.

The landlady just scoffed.

“That old door’s been knocked off its hinges before for far less reason than you had. My husband knows full well how to fix it himself - he just wishes he could get paid for it.” 

“And the table…?” Geralt prompted. The innkeeper had been fairly adamant about extracting every penny it took to replace the heavy oaken furniture. Geralt was somewhat taken aback when the woman just rolled her eyes at him.

“You think that was the first time I’ve had blood on these tables? Bit of baking soda and vinegar will take it right out, no harm done. I’m just glad to see this lad looking more fit.” She reached up to ruffle the bard’s hair and Jaskier tolerated her mothering, fingers twitching. As soon as her attention turned back to the witcher, he was combing his precious locks into a somewhat less haphazard form. Geralt knew the bard had seen the smirk flicker across his features and ignored the bard’s glare, focusing once more on the woman between them.

“Looked half drowned when you brought him in that first night, blood all over and pale as a ghost.” She shook her head. “If you’re ever back in the area, you’re welcome here, so long as you keep your blood where it belongs and mind your manners.” She levelled a look at Geralt with the confidence of a woman well used to bossing around men twice her size. Geralt offered a humble nod and she nodded back, satisfied.

“Keep a candle lit for us,” Jaskier replied, kissing her hand with a cheeky wink. “Our next visit will herald a thousand new tales to share with your patrons here.” She shooed him off with a chuckle, and as the two men turned for the stairs, her strong voice rose over the chatter to add, “Look after each other, the pair of you.”

*********************************************************

“A shadow, a shudder, and so it fell…” Jaskier’s idle singing paused, before the same plucked chords repeated. “A shadow, a shiver, and so it… hmm. D’you like ‘shudder’ or ‘shiver’ there?” 

Geralt didn’t answer, smiling softly as Roach nudged him with her nose. 

“You’ll be fine. It’s only for a few days,” he murmured to her, glancing back at the bard perched on her back, attempting to juggle both his lute and notebook at once. They’d left Caingorn early that morning, headed south, and the weather had been pleasant as they travelled, as if in apology for the storm of several days past. Geralt had reluctantly allowed Jaskier to ride only because the bard’s physical strength had yet to return in full force. His mental and verbal energy, however, was another thing entirely.

“Eh, we’ll come back to that later. Now if I can just weave a little bookend here in the last verse, because…. Oh, but the meter is absolute gold there. Hate to break that up. Hm. Pity… Ah, but…” A haphazard flutter of paper harmonized with an accidental strum that quirked Roach’s ears back. “ _But_ , if we borrow ‘rush of shells’ from up here, change it to, um, ‘her golden curls like a rush of shells’...” 

Geralt cast a concerned look over his shoulder. The bard had been adamant on keeping the whimsical nonsense of shells and princesses in his ballad, and Geralt was beginning to wonder if the poor man had been hallucinating when he’d first stumbled down that pit. 

“Now, I really do need your input on this, Geralt. Roach has been very helpful with questions of style and rhyme, but you were _there_. And I frankly wasn’t paying all that much attention on our way out, with the whole, um, ‘shish-ke-bard’ situation. So think back and tell me what other colors you remember from those shells inside the cave.” For a few moments, Roach’s hooves and her gentle breathing were the only sounds.

“Come on….” 

There was that tone, equal parts teasing and whining, that always heralded a stream of bribes and bartering that no amount of stony silence could hold off for long. Heaving a sigh, Geralt cast a look over his shoulder.

“I think you and I remember that cave _very_ differently.”

“Exactly my point! Now come on - cough it up. What do you remember?” 

“The twenty-foot pile of decaying corpses was fairly memorable.” He could still remember that stink. It had taken several washings to get it out of his clothes and still it lingered. It would probably take another week before the smell left their boots, despite his best efforts. Jaskier had taken one look at the bristle brush and refused to let it anywhere near his expensive leather footwear. How the bard managed to avoid that particular sensory assault was beyond him. 

“I may fall from the saddle in shock. Was that actually a glimmer of humor from you, Geralt? Or just an awful attempt at lying to me? The least you could do is come up with something semi-believable.” 

Geralt stopped short, sharing a look with Roach. She shook her head with a snort that he found summed up his feelings as well. Turning to face Jaskier, he could feel an all-too-familiar frown of exasperated disbelief settling on his brow. 

“What did you eat?” he asked, feeling suddenly like he understood the unique sort of weariness he’d seen exhibited on the faces of mothers with young children in tow. “Between the mountain and the cave,” he added, before the bard’s confused frown could change to a list of every meal he’d ever consumed.

Instead, Jaskier’s eyes and mouth went round with outrage, the younger man somehow managing to look patronizingly down past Roach’s ears at him as he sputtered, “I was not... just… seeing things! Or I _was_ , rather - I know exactly what I saw in there! And if I still had my jacket, I could prove it to you!”

“Saddle bag. Right side.” Geralt crossed his arms as Jaskier slung his lute across his back and tucked the notebook in his waistband with a determined glare. When Jaskier twisted round to reach the saddlebags, however, his healing rib caught him up short and Geralt was forced to abandon his place by Roach’s head to retrieve the tattered remains of the jacket for him while the bard caught his breath. He resumed his cross-armed stance as the jacket was snatched out of his hands.

Immediately, Jaskier began pawing through the torn material, muttering, “... Everybody’s a skeptic these days…. Thankfully, I had the foresight... to collect a little evidence for people like yo- ah-ha!” He pulled something from what remained of the lining, triumphant grin in place as he turned to display his trophy. He unfurled his fingers at Geralt’s eye level, proudly revealing what appeared to be the partially-decomposed ankle and hoof of a deer, tattered scraps of fur and skin still attached. 

No wonder the smell had lingered. 

His bard was insane. 

An instant later the scrap of bone and hoof vanished as Jaskier snapped his arm back with a yelp, flinging the thing into the air as he flailed for purchase to avoid falling off Roach’s back. Geralt jerked back, avoiding being hit in the face by the stinking thing only by inches. As it was, the hoof rebounded off of his breastplate instead, landing on the ground with a dull thump. Geralt caught Roach’s reins from where she danced a few steps away in surprise, pulling her back toward him as he glared up at the bard, jerking the crumpled jacket from his lap and shaking it out one handed. When no further bits of desecrated animal fell out, he chucked it to the side of the road, and caught Jaskier’s eye, hoping his expression clearly stated the question burning in his mind, the same question he wanted to ask every time Jaskier wandered off, picked a fight, or said something particularly idiotic: _Why?_

One hand now anchored on the saddlehorn, Jaskier glared back, face flushed under his disheveled hair.

“That… is _not_ what I picked up!” he snapped, defensive under Geralt’s firm gaze. “You think you’re bloody hilarious, don’t you? Luring me to go look in the jacket…. I’ll thank you to give back my shell, you thief, and then you can apologize for calling me a liar and-or insane, since you’ve obviously seen my proof already!” 

“I try to avoid going through another man’s pockets. Especially yours,” he added, nodding to the dismembered hoof on the ground beside him. Who knew what else the bard had picked up along the way? Geralt was glad he’d gotten rid of the bloodstained shirt and trousers that went with that jacket. As Jaskier caught his breath, probably composing his next belligerent comment, Geralt thought back. It was entirely possible the Shadow was capable of creating minor illusions if it could access a person’s mind, but he hadn’t thought that possible when man and monster were separated by the portal. Then again, it had lured creatures of all sizes into that cave somehow, and the illusion of a safe hideaway or a good meal could be just as effective on them as a magical shell-strewn grotto to an impulsive poet. Jaskier took a breath but Geralt headed him off.

“The Shadow. It was probably luring you in. Giving you what you wanted to see.” Geralt turned and resumed walking, leading Roach and glancing back as Jaskier remained strangely silent for several long moments before speaking slowly.

“So… so everything I saw, then... “ The bard’s eyes were lost in the sunlit branches arching above, clearly struggling to part with his romanticized portrait of events. “Was any of it real...? How much of it was just that… thing… meddling in my thoughts? I mean, it’s bad enough to take my body! Flattering to a certain degree, I suppose, but there was a _distinct_ lack of consent. And then to learn it was also mucking about with my artistic vision, twisting it against me!” His theatrical sigh startled a number of sparrows in the brush nearby. 

“Geralt, you have to help me,” the young man said, the despair in his tone more appropriate for a prisoner facing execution than for a man riding his friend’s horse in the sunshine. “You’re my only link with reality, my last anchor….” 

“It only needed the illusion to lure you through the portal,” Geralt explained. “I assume things changed quickly once you crossed?” He directed the question over his shoulder, adding with a quirk of his eyebrows, “Before that… you weren’t missing much.”

“Then I missed the whole lead-up, the whole dramatic approach to the monster’s lair!”

“You wouldn’t like it. Shells and princesses are more your style.” 

“Don’t deprive me of this, Geralt. I’ve lost so much already…. Blood, mostly... A bit of pride... A really sexy, very expensive outfit....”

“Fine…” Geralt conceded. Knowing Jaskier, the list would go on infinitely until he either gave in or snapped, and a gut punch at this point wouldn’t do either of them any good. He was about to speak when Jaskier uttered a hasty, “Hold on!” and scrambled for his notebook, flipping it open and readying his pencil.

“All right. Go ahead,” the bard prompted, ignoring Geralt’s irritated glare. “What did I miss?” 

“The smell. Your ‘cascading shells’... That many decaying bodies gives off a stink even a human nose couldn’t miss.” 

“Eugh. You’re sure that thing wasn’t just showing you what _you_ wanted to see?” His warning glance sent Jaskier ducking back to his notes with raised eyebrows. “No judgement - beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that.” Geralt cast a glance back at him but kept walking.

“Not so beautiful when you can smell every rotting bone and scrap of fur. It was building a hill,” he continued, “to cushion the fall of whatever hapless creature it lured in next. Most died where they landed.” He hoped the deaths hadn’t all been like the dwarf’s, horrifically slow and agonizing. At least now that the portal was closed, there would be no woodland inhabitants for the Shadow to feed off of. It would die, isolated from every living thing, left to starve as the mages had intended. 

“Ooh. Cosy.” Jaskier sounded perturbed, as well he should. “But everything after that, in the tower - that was all real? Enormous, horrifying smoke demon? You heroically arriving to confront said demon, me getting flung about, dangled out the window… possibly taking a swing at your leg with your sword…” He peered around Roach’s neck, as if checking Geralt’s gait for lameness. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Don’t be. It was a good hit.” Proudest moment of his life, if he admitted it to himself, not that he’d ever let Jaskier’s ego anywhere near that fact. “Next time, aim for the inner thigh. Less muscle in the way. Cut the femoral artery and a man could bleed out in minutes. Stop a fight before it even starts.” He sounded like Vesemir now, quoting textbooks on combat techniques, but if Jaskier was ever in a fight on his own, it could be life-saving information.

“Geralt, that is… horrifying. And I don’t intend to be in a position again where I’ll have to use that, thanks very much. Not against you, anyway. However - your macabre advice will not distract me from the fact that you just gave me a compliment, you big softie, you!”

Geralt shook his head, but couldn’t help a small smile. Naturally, the bard only really absorbed the first few words he said before his mind had wandered off to lyrics or flowers or something equally as attractive to his fleeting attention span. 

“Don’t brush it off,” he argued, “Knowing your opponent’s weaknesses could save your life. And I’ll not have you getting run through again...” Geralt turned a look on the bard, baring his teeth in a warning smile, “You’re not allowed.” 

As expected, Jaskier drew himself up straight in the saddle, puffing up like an angry lark at the notion of his freedom being restricted in any way. 

“Not _allowed_? I’m sorry, but did you become my _mother_ when I wasn’t watching? Not that I intend to ever be stabbed again, mind you, but I’ll have you know it wasn’t all thunderous applause and adoring listeners in Posada before we met! If I hadn’t been up against a real live _witcher_ , I think I might have just come out on top in that little scuffle back there in the tower!” 

“Really?” Geralt said dryly. 

“Your lack of faith in my capabilities wounds me to the core, Geralt.” The idle page-turning from behind him suggested the bard wasn’t nearly so hurt as all that, especially when he went on to say, “I think I’ll leave the song the way it is, actually. A gorgeous sea nymph holds just a tad more appeal for the masses than your stack of corpses.”

A disinterested hum was all he offered the bard as the gentle chords of the lute struck up again. It was true Jaskier was used to bar brawls and the occasional pelting with bread, but that was a far cry from the life-and-death struggle in the tower. The hit to Geralt’s leg would certainly have slowed or even crippled a human opponent, but he suspected the blow had been equal parts panic and luck, rather than actual skill. It _had_ been a good hit, especially for a man Geralt was fairly certain had never been in a genuine sword fight before, though the stance the bard had instinctively taken spoke of some lessons with a blade at the very least. 

Geralt decided he’d make sure to replace the bard’s dagger in the next town. He doubted he could get the younger man to agree to carrying a short sword, not when the weight of his own lute and pack was often enough to get him complaining. A dagger would at least leave Jaskier with something beyond his precious lute to defend himself with. The younger man was cocky and reckless, and Geralt hoped they’d never have to test the truth of Jaskier’s claims. For now, he was happy to play bodyguard, for as long as his dear, foolish friend would let him, and they fell into companionable silence save for the steady thump of Roach’s hooves and the light melody that followed their every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note  
> Exhausted Single Father Geralt and his Spastic Bard would make a good sitcom. 
> 
> Both of our bois will return... We have another fic nearly finished and it's a doozy... gonna need the tissues on hand for some major Geralt Whumpage complete with Feral/Capable Jaskier!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your reviews! My sis and I LOVE to hear which parts you liked best and we're so very flattered at all the praise and compliments we've gotten! We live for reviews the way Jaskier lives for that little twitch in the corner of Geralt's eye when he sings the Fishmonger's Daughter for the fifth time that night. Geralt will probably chuck him in the next lake they come to... then have to fish him out and dry him off and give him cookies.


End file.
